A Case of Forgiveness
by SweetInsanityWrites
Summary: After the events of "The Final Problem"; Mystrade story with bits of Johnlock in it; I try to keep a balance of romance and fun. It's my first fic and I am always open for constructive critism :) includes cases inspired from the Conan Doyle stories
1. Chapter 1

When Gregory Lestrade first met Sherlock Holmes, he had thought him to be cold-hearted machine, incapable of understanding – let alone feeling – human emotion. It had taken quite some time for him to see behind the mask of confidence and cold brain-work. He remembered now, the time he first realized there was an actual human heart beating inside the Detective's chest, during a case for a missing child.

Sherlock had found the kidnapped girl within hours, leaving an abandoned building with the frightened child in his arm. The girl had refused to leave his side until her parents arrived at the scene. It had made Greg very fond of him, watching the tall, detached man whisper secret words of kindness to the fearful kid, holding her close to his chest, refusing to let go until she was safe with her family.

„Uhm… Mycroft… Make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks he is."  
"Yeah, I'll take care of it."  
"Thanks Greg."

When John Watson had stepped into their Investigations, the same protective instinct seemed to have sparked in Sherlock Holmes' heart. He had changed him, made him more human than any other man Greg had ever met.

"He's a great man." "He's more than that. He's a good one!"

He looked back, watching John and Sherlock as they huddled together, speaking in low voices. He was relieved to see them back together, the two of them against the rest of the world, once again.

The yellow neon lights were flickering and buzzing, making his heart beat even faster with nervosity as he walked down the long corridor, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls. It wasn't very difficult, finding the hospital room in which Mycroft Holmes was staying, as two heavily armed men were guarding the door. They eyed Greg suspiciously as he approached the door. He held up his badge to them.  
"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Scotland Yard."  
"Mr. Holmes does not wish to speak to the police." One of the guards grunted.  
Greg rolled his eyes, sighing. "Well I'm not the police." He said. "I'm family".  
"We have our orders, no one is to enter this room aside from the staff."  
"Oh for god's sake, let the man in!" called a voice from inside the room.  
"Yes, sir!" The men said in unison, stepping aside.

The room was dim lit and it smelled of hospital and sickness. Mycroft looked up from between the white sheets, tubes running from his arm into strange machinery, some of which made an annoying beeping noise. He did not smile. He looked tired, bruises on his face and arms where Eurus had hit him.  
"How is my brother?" he asked quietly, his eyes clouded with worry and pain. Greg sat down next to the hospital bed, his heart aching with sympathy. "Sherlock's fine. Shocked and exhausted but unharmed." Mycroft exhaled in relief.  
"And Doctor Watson?"  
"Hypothermia and shock but he'll be fine. Are you okay?"

Mycroft's eyes stared, unfocused, into the distance. There was silence, except for the beeping of machines and the soft sound of traffic outside. Somewhere out on the streets a group of teenagers where shouting, an ambulance rushed through the busy streets of London, the roaring engine of a motorcycle echoed through the streets. Hesitantly, Greg took Mycroft's free hand into his own, tracing little circles on the soft skin. He had always found them quite pretty hands, slim and clean they looked so fragile in his own rough, dirty fingers, scarred from years of shooting and fighting. His heart beat so strong inside his chest, he felt as if it would right out of his ribcage. Inhaling sharply, Mycroft pulled his hand away. "I do not deserve this." He whispered. He looked up, wincing at the shock and pain he saw in the other man's eyes. "I do not deserve you." He said, his voice breaking, tears glittering in his tired eyes. "Look at what I have done, Gregory. People died. I almost lost my brother. I enslaved my sister to be tortured by her own mind. I was overconfident in my own cleverness and now others had to pay the price."  
Greg to a deep breath, nodding slowly.  
"I've been a cop for many years. I made wrong choices. Got the wrong people behind bars, let serial killers escape, I even killed people because I knew no other way to stop them. God knows I regret a lot of decisions I made. Went over the same moments in my head again and again, thinking about all the ways things could've been different. But in the end, there's no way to go back. There's nothing to be gained from torturing yourself with guilt. You have carried the weight of this choice for so long, Myc, it's time to forgive yourself."

Mycroft had turned his head away again, staring out the window, his glistening eyes moving quickly, as if he was watching someone or something no one else could see. "Forgiveness" he whispered "'and intentional process by which a victim lets go of emotions such as vengefulness, increasing the ability to wish the offender well.' It sounds so easy, doesn't it? Just letting go. Yet, it is the hardest thing to do, especially if the offender is yourself. I have tried so hard to detach myself from human emotion. For the longest time, it seemed to work quite well."

He closed his eyes, his breath shaking as memories danced through his mind, memories he had kept hidden, buried in the depth of his mind, for many years. "My sister and I used to make up riddles for each other to solve. She was always better than I was, of course but for me it was never about competing. She drowned an innocent child and burned down our home. I saw the emptiness in her eyes. She was born a prisoner of her own mind. Isolated and lost, unable to connect to any other human being. No matter how hard I tried, I was never quite able to despise her. I forgave her. Payed her visits, brought her gifts. I was so sure I understood her. I thought I knew what I was doing. But I was blinded by my own overconfidence. Five minutes. Five minutes that made all of this possible." He opened his eyes. "… You should probably leave, Gregory."

His voice was tense with the effort to keep up his façade. Taking a deep breath, he held his hand out to Mycroft's, whispering softly "I am there for you. I will not leave you. I forgive you."  
Slowly , Mycroft raised his hand, their fingers interlacing. Unable to hold back his tears any longer, every last bit of the Ice man's mask breaking away, he held on to Greg's hand, shaking.

Greg moved forward onto the creaking hospital bed, pulling his boyfriend against his chest. He felt his anxiety fade, his heart beating slow and steady. Everything around him disappeared, the traffic, the strange smell, the beeping machines and the flickering lights. There was only Mycroft, curled up in his arms, sobbing softly. "God, I love you so much, Myc."


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs. Hudson opened the door at 221b Bakerstreet with her usual cheerful smile. However, upon seeing who was behind it, she frowned and rolled her eyes. "What do you want know?" She asked, putting her hands to her hips. "Good morning to you too Mrs. Hudson. My brother asked me to come around, so might I please enter?" Mycroft asked in slight annoyance. The tough Landlady stared at him defiantly. "After what you did? The flat was blown into pieces the last time you were here! It's never a good omen when you're here." He flinched at her words and her gaze softened. "Well up you go, but behave, Mycroft Holmes, or I'll kick you straight out the window!"

Greg couldn't help himself from chuckling at her courage and he was still grinning as they climbed up the stairs. There had been a time he thought this man to be the toughest, coldest human being one could encounter. Now, however, he knew behind the shell of ice was the softest heart, fragile and kind. Women especially always seemed to intimidate him and after recent events, Greg understood why.  
Mycroft cast him an angry glance over his shoulder. "Oh come on" the Inspector laughed "you've got to admit, she's got some balls!".

"Who has?" John opened the door, letting the two of them in. "Mrs. Hudson seemed to be under the impression my coming inside this flat is an omen of destruction." Mycroft said. The Doctor grinned "Well she isn't wrong!". "I can leave right away, if my presence is unwanted-" "Jaawwwn! She's doing it again!" Sherlock Holme's voice rang through the house, sounding rather desperate, accompanied by the high-pitched wailing of a child. With a sigh, her father turned around and jogged off towards the bedroom. Moments later he reappeared, a half-dressed Rosie on his arm, Sherlock following him, cheeks blushed and hair ruffled, a picture that filled Greg's heart with pride. Who would've thought he'd get to see the infamous Sherlock Holmes, who faced the vilest of criminals without the slightest indication of fear, absolutely distressed in the face of a crying child.

The baby was still wailing, though much softer now. John carried her to the couch where he continued to dress her. "I told you, you can't always let her get what she wants. She'll be walking all over you once she's older." Sherlock crossed his arms defiantly. "Distressing babies regularly or intensively undermines self-regulatory systems which results in long-term problems during adolescence." "She refused to let you put on her pants!" "Pants are distressing!" He took Rosamund, now babbling quietly and fully dressed, back in his arms and turned to his brother.

"Sorry for all that, I have not yet fully understood the exact science of raising a child. It is quite confusing. Did you two arrive in the same car?" He cocked his head to the side in confusion. Behind him, John raised his eyebrow at Greg, grinning. The Inspector had already guessed that it had been very obvious, showing up at the same time, entering the room together. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked genuinely confused. Mycroft straightened his shoulders and raised his head defiantly. "There was business to discuss considering the recent events." Greg sighed. How long were they going to play this game? "Is it true you two want joint custody for Rosamund?" Mycroft eyed the baby suspiciously, as if it were a grenade that could explode any moment. "It makes sense." John answered, laying down cups and spoons on the table next to the fireplace. "I can't afford my old house on my own and Rosie deserves to have two parents." Sherlock shrugged and nodded "In order for a human baby to develop to their full potential, they require two, at best three, consistent caregivers." Mrs. Hudson entered the room with a steaming teapot and a box of biscuits. "I think it's an absolutely wonderful idea, John. And if you two ever need some privacy, feel free to bring the little one downstairs!" she winked at John, who just sighed and nodded. "Thanks for the offer Mrs. Hudson" The Landlady beamed happily "Still not your housekeeper, though!" she remarked, picking up toys that were scattered on the floor.

Sherlock sat down on his armchair, trying to convince Rosie to take her soother.  
The group settled around the table for tea. Mycroft looked around the table in confusion, leaning over to Greg, whispering "What exactly is the point of this gathering?". Lestrade laughed warmly. "Spending time with your family, admiring how much Rosie has grown, it's what people do." He answered softly, feeling once again the need to at least hold his boyfriend's hand, seeing how much the situation seemed to stress him. "Well then…" Mycroft said, looking over to Rosamund, who had now thrown her soother into her father's tea, giggling merrily at the mess it had made. "She looks very... healthy. I see she is already investigating the cause-and-effect relationships while clearly stating her disagreement with your choice of soothers." Rosamund had now somehow gotten hold of a spoon and delightedly let it join her soother in the tea. "Yeah, she gets that from Mary's side, I guess." John said, handing his daughter a rattle in a desperate attempt to keep her busy.

Greg felt Mycroft tense at the mention of the girl's deceased mother and gently leaned against his shoulder. They had both been there, had seen Mary Watson speak her last words to her husband. Greg had accompanied John to the morgue, had sat with him in during the silent vigil and a few days later, he and Molly had helped with the arrangement of the funeral. He had also tried to reach out to Sherlock, tried to be there for him, but the Detective had locked himself away, asking to be left alone. His brother, though at first dealing with the matter in a very business-like fashion, had been struck quite hard by the events at the aquarium. The memory made Greg's heart ached. The night after the funeral, he had found Mycroft drunk on his kitchen floor, head in his hands. Guilt and worry for his brother had broken through his walls, a situation not unfamiliar for Greg. That night they had sat on the cold stone floor, whispering stories of battles fought and people lost, until Mycroft could be persuaded to go to bed.

Now, as they were watching the little girl, so unaware of the dark cloud which hung over her family, Lestrade knew that despite his ineptitude with children, Mycroft Holmes would do whatever it took to ensure she had the best upbringing a child could have.


	3. Chapter 3

The afternoon passed pleasantly, the group chatting merrily, Rosie being passed from one arm to the other. As the sun set and the baby was put to bed, Greg found himself alone with John, as Sherlock was reading a bed time story and Mycroft had been in deep conversation on his phone for at least an hour. John gave him a cheeky grin, raising his eyebrows. "So, how long? – You and Mycroft." Greg's heart skipped a beat, he felt the blood rush into his head. "It's fine, by the way." His friend added. "I'm just curious." "Uhm yeah, a while actually. After Irene Adler was assumed dead and showed up in Molly's morgue he asked me to keep an eye on Sherlock. Send me to Baskerville later to make sure his brother doesn't get himself into trouble again." "So you just found a connection in your shared worry for Sherlock?" "Kind of. Spend a lot of time together. Mycroft's not as tough as he looks. I saw that, after a while. He needs someone." John smiled kindly, nodding. "Yeah I know what that's like. You don't want to tell Sherlock?" "He isn't ready."

Their conversation was interrupted by Sherlock re-entering the room, announcing that Rosie was now fast asleep and that he had now successfully memorized an impressive selection Grimm's fairy tales. They said their goodbyes – Mycroft putting the Prime Minister on hold to shake his brother's hand – and soon Greg found himself back on the backseat of the sleek, black car.

His call ended, Mycroft leaned back with a long sigh. "Please promise me you will never ask to adopt a child, this wailing will haunt my dreams." Greg looked up in surprise. "What makes you think I'd ask for that?" Shifting nervously in his seat, he shrugged. "You obviously liked her. The way you watched my brother and Doctor Watson you seemed quite fond of the thought of parenthood." "I'm just very happy for them, that's all. They deserve some peace after everything that happened." Greg stretched out his hand, taking Mycroft's into his own, tracing the soft outline of veins under his skin. "We never really defined out relationship, did we?" he asked quietly, looking into bright blue eyes that held such mystery for him. "I never thought it necessary. My feelings for you should have been very clear." They had been, Greg remembered, he would never forget that evening, seeing Mycroft so fragile and completely trusting. "Yes" he said softly "they were. John asked about us. I told you he'd notice." "And?" "Only told him you aren't ready." He interlaced their fingers, holding Mycroft's hand tightly. "You know they wouldn't care. No one would judge. Sherlock and John are raising a child together-" "It's not about you being a man it is about the concept of me being in a romantic relationship at general. I do not wish to discuss this matter further, Gregory."

He turned his head, staring out of the window. They spent the rest of the car ride in silence, watching the houses pass by, the first stars appearing on the black velvet sky. The driver dropped Greg off by his flat. They didn't spend every night together. He had accepted that but he didn't like it. After all this, there was still something about the prospect of a relationship that seemed to frighten Mycroft. Sometimes he found himself wondering if there was any point in even trying, being shut out, again and again, until eventually he got an evening or two in which Mycroft allowed himself to show his feelings openly. But in the end, it was all worth it. There was no going back. His heart had inevitably tied itself to that broken, gentle man and there was no way he'd ever give up hope that one day he might be able to openly share this joy with his friends. He closed his eyes, lying down on the couch, remembering the evening after Sherlock Holmes had returned from the dead...

Inspector Lestrade had gotten used to the strange procedures one had to go through to meet with Mycroft Holmes. Being picked up by a random car and then guided through the large, silent faculty by an old, wheezing butler until he arrived in a rather gloomy office. They had spent many hours in that room and others, discussing mostly Sherlock or certain cases they were working on. Sometimes their conversations had gotten more private, Greg talking about old cases and sometimes his teen years, Mycroft sharing stories from his and Sherlock's childhood. He had looked much happier then, lost in memories of a time without - or at least with less- burden on his shoulders.  
It had been these conversations, in which he opened his heart and his concern and love for his brother was most visible, that had made Greg fall hopelessly in love with Mycroft. At first it had scared him, the happiness he felt when they were in a room together, the way his heart beat faster when he looked at him, the overwhelming affection that rushed through him whenever Myc smiled. Many times he had tried to ignore it, to fight it, but at last he had given in and accepted his fate. There was no point in trying to change something that felt so true and right. As he now stepped inside in the dimly lit room, Mycroft looking up from his papers from behind the large desk of dark oak wood, Greg embraced the fluttering of his heart and the warmth in his stomach. "I suppose I owe you an apology?" Mycroft asked, lifting the newspaper with the headline 'Detective with the hat is back'. Greg shrugged. "Explains why I haven't seen you for months." He said calmly, "You could've trusted me, though, I wouldn't have told anyone."  
"It was Sherlock who decided who was to be told and who had to remain in the dark. If too many people had known, the risk would have been too high." Mycroft's eyes darkened. "Not even I knew from the beginning. He spared my parents the pain, of course, payed them a quick visit before he disappeared, but I was not included in his plan until I was called in to identify the body a few days later. Those were, between the two of us, without doubt the most terrible days I have ever experienced. I presume I deserved it." He buried his face in his hands with a sigh.  
Greg walked around the desk, so that he was next to Mycroft, leaning against the table top, picking up the newspaper. He scanned the article on the front page, then dropped the paper and leaned towards Mycroft. "You were trying to do the right thing." He said softly. "Not gonna say I agree with what you decided to do but what's done is done. No point agonising over this."

Mycroft lifted his head, his eyes glistening. "I am sorry." He whispered. Greg wondered how long he had been holding this back, the guilt and self-loathing, two years of battling the demons he raised, alone in the darkness. The pain was now written all over the other man's face, crystal blue eyes shining with tears, his face open in pure vulnerability. Something happened between the two men in that moment of complete trust and understanding, something they would never quite be able to describe or understand. Greg's heart ached with affection and sympathy in a way he had never experienced before.  
It was almost instinctively as he reached out and took Mycroft's hand, holding it tightly.  
"It's okay"  
His heart skipped at the soft touch, he barely dared to breath, drawing circles on the pale, freckled skin. Suddenly, being with Mycroft was as easy, as natural, as breathing. Without thinking, he gently pulled him up by his hands, so that they stood face to face. Hesitantly, Mycroft rested his head on Greg's shoulder, who pulled him into a tight embrace. The world stood perfectly still. Slowly, Mycroft's breathing calmed and he stopped shaking. He smelled like home, Greg thought, like expensive perfume, paper and new, fancy car but mostly he smelled like home. Warm and familiar and safe. The fabric of the expensive suit felt thick and rough under his fingertips. Mycroft lifted his head, smiling shyly, biting his bottom lip thoughtfully. Cupping Greg's face with his hand, tracing his jawline with his thumb, he whispered in wonder "I never really noticed how beautiful you are…" He blushed, pale cheeks filling with colour, as he realized he had spoken out loud. Greg chuckled softly, placing his hand under Mycroft's chin, gently guiding his face towards his own. As easy and natural as breathing. He closed his eyes. Their lips met, careful and hesitant. Both acted instinctively, embracing each other softly. Mycroft tasted a bit of wine. He kissed so carefully, as if he expected to break something should he move too quickly or be too rough. Greg gasped softly at the tingling sensation that filled his stomach, the overwhelming joy and affection that swept over him. Mycroft, too, exhaled in surprise, whispering, without separating his lips from his lover's "So very, very beautiful".


	4. Chapter 4

The shrill ringing of a phone tore Greg out of his semi-sleep memories. With a sigh, he picked up his phone. It was a text "Emergency! Come to Bakerstreet at once – SH" Greg's heart skipped a beat. He jumped up at once, grabbing his coat. He was already running down the street, trying to catch a cab when his phone rang again. "John says my previous message might be misleading. Please do not bring the entire police force of London again. - SH"

Sherlock opened the door of his flat, fully dressed in coat and scarf, pressing a pile of papers in Greg's hands. "We'll be gone for approximately 3 days, 2 hours and 35 minutes, maybe 2 days, 3 hours and 15 minutes, depending on the tie the client wears tomorrow. Everything you need to know is in here, if you have any questions, don't ask me. Good day!" He was out the door in seconds, jumping down the stairs, phone in hand. John stopped to thank Greg for agreeing to babysit on short notice before following Sherlock in equal hurry. Greg stared after them in shock. "You bastard..:" he murmured, grinning despite himself.

Little Rosie was asleep in her crib, toys were scattered all around the flat, lying between Sherlock's chemistry supplies, a severed hand was floating in the sink and a teddybear was sitting in the microwave. Greg sat down on Sherlock's armchair and skipped through the papers he had been given. It was a collection of step-by-step tutorials on feeding and dressing the child, plus a list of warnings including "Rosamund is very sticky – it seems to be a common thing with babies." And "Don't let her touch the tea-cups, Mrs Hudson gets very mad.". Shaking his head, smiling, he laid the papers on the table and ran his fingers through his short, grey hair. He was sure the next days would be very interesting and not nearly as relaxing as he had hoped his vacation from work would be.  
His phone rang again, Mycroft's name on the display. Greg tensed, his heart skipped a beat, as it always did when he thought about him.

"Good morning." He said calmly.  
"Uhm yes Good morning Gregory…"  
"Everything okay?"  
"I just – I felt like I owe you an apology. For yesterday."  
"It's alright. I just wish you would tell me what you're so worried about."  
"I can't. Not yet. … Any plans for today? I – er – could try to make it up to you…"  
Greg laughed softly.  
"You could, in fact, make it up to me. I could use some help babysitting."  
"Babysitting? Absolutely not!"  
"C'me on, she's just a child, how bad can it be?"

Mrs. Hudson was entered her flat at Bakerstreet in a very good mood. Her afternoon had been a most pleasant one, having a nice cup of tea with her friends, flirting with some men, though they always seemed a bit intimidated by her. She wondered if she should stop mentioning the drug cartel and the handcuffs. But where was the fun in that? The landlady danced through her kitchen, preparing the evening tea.  
As she took off her headphones, however, the loud wailing of a child and the clanking of metal threatened to darken her mood. "Sherlock Holmes, if you've let that child near the china again…!" She climbed up the stairs, pushed through the door and burst into screeching laughter.

The elegantly dressed Mycroft Holmes crouched behind the leather armchair, covered in the remnants of Rosie's lunch, a look of utter horror on his face as he watched the child, who was gleefully chewing his tie, tear a piece of paper to bits with the utmost fascination.  
Meanwhile, Inspector Lestrade was desperately trying to repair what was left of the music box, oblivious of the fact that the screwdriver he was using had previously been stabbed inside a severed hand to exclude it as a possible murder weapon.  
"What on earth is going on?" Mrs. Hudson asked, after finally catching her breath. Mycroft helplessly pointed at Rosie. "She wouldn't stop crying, it was terrible!" Greg held up the broken music box, adding "The instructions said this was the only way to calm her when she was upset and she pushed it down the stairs!" The Landlady shook her head, picking up the child, who finally let go of the expensive tie, since the sparkling jewellery seemed much more entertaining. "Now you two, really, you act like you've never seen a child before. Can manage a government and all of London's police force but a little child brings you to your knees? I can go and keep her busy while you clean up this mess, but I really have other things to do!" She gathered up some toys and a soother and took Rosie to her own flat, singing merrily.

"I'd much rather deal with a murderous psychopath again." Mycroft murmured. "At least they don't eat my suit." Greg grinned "Really? I wouldn't be surprised." He dropped the music box in the trashcan with a defeated sigh. "Just not sure how I'm gonna survive the next three days. We can hardly expect the Landlady to help us out." "I'd pay her!" "Don't you dare! She'd have you out on the streets before you even touch your check book." "Well…" Mycroft sighed. "I'm afraid there's only one solution, then." He took out his phone, frowning, and made a call.

"Mykie!" Mrs. Holmes shouted gleefully, as she and her husband entered the flat.  
"Really, you should've called us sooner, why didn't Sherlock ask us in the first place? It's been ages since we've seen little Rosie – oh hello sweetie, there you are!" She ran towards the little girl, arms outstretched, and snatched her with such confidence that told everyone in the room the baby would most likely not leave her side for the following days. Her husband stood by the door quietly, padding his son's shoulder and shaking Greg's hand. "Not that it's my business but what's a Detective doing babysitting a child if I may ask?" "Uh well, Molly Hooper is on a holiday herself so I guess Sherlock just called the two other people he in the city he can trust." Mr. Holmes nodded and walked off to join his wife in worshipping the small, sticky creature that had now probably confirmed Mycroft's absolute terror of small children, though Greg couldn't really blame him.  
The Holmes parents joyfully bounced little Rosie around and the two men sank onto the couch with a sigh. "This really wasn't my idea of making it up to you." "I know, but I have the entire week of and John's ought to come back soon. I hope." Without thinking, Mycroft softly ran his fingers over Greg's hand. He blushed and looked up to his parents, who only had eyes for the giggling child. "You'd think they'd never seen a child in their life" he groaned with an eye roll. "I remember how absolutely obsessed they were with Sherlock when he was born. I never quite understood, he wasn't nearly as clever as me." "Oi Myc" his mother said "you were just jealous of his sweet curls!" Greg laughed softly. "I do have the sweetest pictures, Gregory, you should see them sometime!" She smiled. Greg looked at her in surprise. Mycroft tensed. "what?" Mrs Holmes asked, rocking baby Rosie softly while she down opposite to them. "Am I not supposed to know about you two? I am old, not blind!" She smiled kindly. "and I am very happy my son finally found someone."

"I don't – it's not-" Mycroft stammered, shaking slightly. Instinctively, Greg took his hand, smiling encouragingly. "Well Mrs Holmes, I'm quite impressed, not even Sherlock noticed." "Didn't he? He's a bit clumsy with people sometimes. Oh and do call me Wanda my dear!" Mr Holmes looked about as confused and surprised as Mycroft –though not nearly as terrified- as he sat down next to his wife. "So- they are - you are together? Since when? Why didn't you tell us?" Mycroft sighed. "Well if you must know, we have been – seeing each other for a couple of months. It's a long story and I do ask you not you go parading about it. There's no need for anyone to know... and you know how I feel about these nicknames!"

Mr Holmes took little Rosie in his arm and started humming happily. "I hope you don't think we would judge you! You must know we live and let live, after uncle Rudi-" "We are very happy for you dear!" Mrs Holmes said again, padding her son's knee. Her face fell as she saw that he still looked very uncomfortable. "Oh really…" She stood up and pulled Mycroft into a tight hug, who flushed a deep red, and, despite himself, smiled. "Oh you too, dear!" Mrs Holmes said, gesturing Greg to join, who obeyed, grinning shyly. Mr Holmes watched, humming merrily, while Rosie squeaked and took hold of her grandfather's glasses. When his wife released the overwhelmed couple, he stood up and padded Greg on the shoulder. "Welcome to the family" he chuckled. "Well, time for Rosie's dinner! I suppose neither of you two wants to feed her?" They shook their heads in shocked unison.


	5. Chapter 5

An hour later, silence had finally fallen over 221B. The flat had been cleaned, the child was fed and her grandparents read her one bedtime story after the other. Outside, the sun was setting behind the tall buildings of London, painting the sky in vibrant red and the first stars were already shining through the thin clouds. The room was tinged in orange light. Greg and Mycroft had collapsed on the couch again and Mycroft had never been more grateful for his parent's fascination with small humans. They leaned against each other in silence, allowing themselves to show their affection for each other after trying to hold back – out of sheer awkwardness- for most of the day.  
"That wasn't so bad!" Greg said, absentmindedly running his fingers over his boyfriend's arm. "You're parents are very nice." He added quietly.  
"That wasn't what I was worried about." Mycroft whispered. "Although it was a remarkably mortifying experience."  
"Oh c'mon Myc, it wasn't that bad." "They hugged me!" He leaned his head on Greg's shoulder. "This is all very new to me" he said quietly. "I know." Greg kissed his forehead. "Do you trust me?" he asked. "Of course." "Then why won't you tell me what you're so afraid of?" Mycroft flinched and pulled away. "Because I can't" "Okay." "You're hurt." "I'm not. I'm worried." They sat in silence. Night had fallen and the stars had come out, leaving the flat dimly lit. Mycroft's breathing grew slow and steady and Greg saw that he had fallen asleep, curled up against him, hand clutching his shirt. He smiled and kissed his forehead again. The sound of bedtime stories had ceased and Mr and Mrs Holmes closed the door to Rosie's bedroom quietly. "Time to bring another child to bed?" Mrs Holmes smiled warmly, as she spotted her son on the sofa. Greg chuckled "It's alright, let him sleep."  
She nodded "We'll be staying in Sherlock's room if you need anything! Good night." "Good Night Mrs Holmes." "Wanda!" She winked and closed the door behind her.  
Greg carefully pulled a blanket over himself and Mycroft, who was now fast asleep, eyelids twitching from a vivid dream. He wrapped his arms around him and carefully rested his head on Mycroft's, listening to his lover's soft breathing until he himself drifted of in a dreamless sleep.

Protestant wailing woke Greg Lestrade exactly 4 hours later.  
It took him a moment to remember why he was lying uncomfortably on a small couch with a softly snoring man, still wearing his expensive suit, on his chest. Gently, he pushed Mycroft off, making sure he stayed asleep, curled up under the blanket like a very clumsy cat.  
He walked inside Rosamund's room and switched on the small, dim lamp on the bedside table. "What's the matter little one? Can't sleep?" Rosie looked up at the newcomer with big, glistening eyes, mumbling grumpily. "Now there" Greg lifted the child out of her crib and placed her on his lab. "Do you miss your Daddy?" he asked softly, busying the child with the plush bumblebee Sherlock had bought for her. "They'll be back very soon, you know. Don't you worry." He rocked her gently, smiling as she stopped wailing and closed her eyes, bumblebee clutched firmly in her arms. "There you go little Rosie. All safe and sound." Greg gently put her back in bed. Rosamund protested softly but exhaustion swiftly overwhelmed her and she was fast asleep again. Warmth spread in Greg's stomach and he sat down next to little Rosie's bed, watching the crib mobile that was dancing softly above their heads. John had bought it but Sherlock had taken the liberty to make some adjustments, so small magnifying lens and a miniature skull had joined the dolphins and sharks that were dancing above the Babies' head. The lights of by-passing cars outside flickered over the walls. There was absolute silence, only the soft breathing of Rosie and himself.

Mrs Hudson was surprised to find the flat in a relatively clean state on the next morning. Aside from the sofa cover, which was carelessly thrown on the coffee table, the rooms looked suspiciously clean and tidy. With a tinge of worry, the landlady placed the morning tea – she just couldn't help herself - on the kitchen table and went to check on Rosie. She opened the door quietly and stepped inside the child's room. Golden light was breaking through the curtains, reflecting softly on the magnifying lens hanging from the crib mobile. Rosie sat in her bed, chewing on her bumblebee's wing, a soft giggle bubbling from her mouth as she saw Mrs Hudson enter. Next to her crib was Inspector Lestrade, head leaning against the crib, one hand between the bars. To her great surprise she recognized Mycroft leaning against the Inspector's shoulder, one arm wrapped around him, the free hand on his chest. She smiled warmly. "There might just be a heart inside that man after all.". Quietly, she tip-toed through the room, fetched Rosie and closed the bedroom door behind her.

Mycroft was the first to wake as he heard familiar voices talk merrily in the other room. His parents and the housekeeper landlady seemed to be having breakfast together. Groggily, he sat up, stretching his stiff limbs. Greg stirred at the movement, yawning. He looked around the room in confusion, before remembering where he was. "What are you doing here? I thought you were asleep, I didn't mean to wake you." His voice was deep and rough with sleepiness. "You didn't. It got cold without you. I came to find you and you were asleep, so I joined you." Greg grinned happily. "That's very sweet." He kissed Mycroft softly, running his hands through his hair. He was warm and soft and familiar in his hands. The fabric of his shirt had left soft lines on Mycroft cheeks. Greg kissed them. "We'd better get some breakfast before my parents eat it all!" Mycroft declared, getting to his feet with a groan. He helped him up and pulled him into a close embrace. "Whoa" Greg laughed "you're usually not this… cuddly." "It's the sleepiness, I think." He muffled.  
"You should be sleepy more often, it's cute." "I am the british government, I am not cute." came the still rather sleepy sounding response. "sure. let's get you some coffee."

"Aaaww there they are, awake at last! I made some coffee for you and there's still some eggs in the pan!" Mrs Hudson greeted them warmly, much to Mycroft's surprise, who had expected to be casually ignored again. "Oh and don't you worry dear, you're secret's safe with me." she added with a wink.  
Mycroft smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

Greg enjoyed the next days more than he had thought he would. The Holmes parents and Mrs Hudson did most of the babysitting, the flat was cleaner than it had ever been and most importantly there was no real need to hide his feelings for Mycroft anymore. There was still something that made his boyfriend uneasy and Greg didn't dare to kiss or even hug him while others were in the room, but just the slight touch of a hand or warm look was enough to make him feel much at home. Mycroft hadn't addressed the topic of their relationship since the first night and neither his parents nor Mrs Hudson had ever mentioned it again. Greg was very grateful for their silent acceptance for he still felt like there was something Mycroft feared beyond the matter of a coming-out.

Three days after Sherlock and John had gone out on their adventure – John had, of course, called multiple times to make sure his daughter was in good hands – Greg received another text.

"I miscalculated. Events turned out to be far more complicated than I thought. This might be a matter of national importance after all. Don't tell Mycroft. – SH"

They were having tea in the living room, Mycroft typing eagerly, laptop on his knees, on Sherlock's armchair, Mr and Mrs Holmes playing with Rosie while Greg was trying to concentrate on one of the "History of Crime" books from the shelf. He put the volume on the small coffee table, leaning back into John's armchair with a sigh. This wasn't really how he had imagined his short holiday to be.

"Mrs – er – Wanda, how much longer could you stay around?" Mrs Holmes put her hands to her hips, shaking her head. "Got distracted again, did he? Well, I see what I can do. But you're good with her, I'm sure you could survive a day alone." Greg shrugged. "Who knows what the two of them are up to this time." Mycroft looked up from his laptop, frowning. "Haven't we been here for weeks already?" he sighed.

There was a knock at the door and a gentleman entered. He was middle-aged, with rather dark skin and a large moustache. "Mr Holmes?" he asked carefully.  
"Yes?" answered both Mycroft and his father, Greg bit his tongue trying not to answer himself. The man looked around in confusion. Whatever he had expected to find at the infamous 221B Bakerstreet, it probably wasn't a gay middle-aged couple having tea with their parents and a wailing child who was chewing on a large plush bumblebee. Mycroft got up and straightened his suit. "What can we do for you?" he asked rather impatiently. "My name is Melas, Sir, I have a case for you." Mycroft frowned even more. "I am not my brother. I do not do footwork. You will have to wait until he returns." He dropped back on the armchair. Mr Holmes looked at him sternly "Manners, Mycroft! We did not raise you like that!" His son flushed red and buried his face in his hands. "Please sit down, would you like a cup of tea? You came all the way, you might as well stay. Timothy Holmes, very nice to meet you Mr. Melas!" He smiled warmly and poured the visitor a cup of tea. "I really don't want to be a bother." Mr. Melas said but sat down on the client chair, taking his cup with a soft thanks. "You're not a bother at all!" Mrs Holmes said "Mykie is always showing of, saying he's the 'clever one' –" "Mother!" "- and Inspector Lestrade here can surely be of help?" She grinned with a teasing sparkle in her eyes. "Unless, of course, you'd rather go to the park with Rosie?" She picked up the child and her husband and silenty gathered her things, leaving the three men alone in the room.  
Mycroft jumped, forcing a smile. "What can we do for you?"

The client shifted in his seat. "Well, I'm an interpreter you see and two days ago I was called late at night by a man, called himself Latimer. He sent a fancy car over to my flat to pick me up. It had those dark windows and it was in the middle of the night, so I barely saw where I was. We arrived at this manor, where some sort of servant greeted us and –" "Do get to the point *please* you're not writing a novel!" Mycroft interrupted. "What is your case?" Mr Melas flinched but continued, now a bit faster "The lad I had to talk to, they had me ask him to solve some riddle, though no one said what that was about. Wanted him to help them find something. He said he'd rather die than help them. He looked really frightened, covered in bruises and scratches. They threatened to hurt him, torture him, if he didn't help them and he said they could, he would never give anything away. After an hour or so of trying to convince him they gave up, payed me in cash and put me back in that fancy sports car. Told me if I told a soul about what happened it weren't gonna end well for me. Something very strange is going on at that place Mr Holmes!" Mycroft arched his brow. "What am I supposed to do about it? You don't even know where that house was and the name they gave you was probably a false one. This is barely anything to go on." Mr Melas frowned. "If you had let me tell the whole story in detail – I snuck in little questions of my own, asked his name and such. He said he was called Katides and that the men were not to be trusted. And there was a woman! Didn't see her face but she was screaming, in greek, begging the man not to give in. They sent the servant-guy to silence her. I'm sure there must be some way to find out who these people are!" Mycroft sighed. "Fine, I'll make a few arrangements."

Greg, who had been thoughtfully looking out the window now turned to the client. "You haven't gone to the police?" He shook his head. "I don't trust them. My life probably depends on it!"  
The Inspector nodded thoughtfully. "Well there is nothing we can do if we don't know where you have been and who employed you."  
Mycroft cleared his throat dramatically. "Mr. Paul Kratides, 24 years old, came to England two weeks ago, following his younger sister Ms. Sophie Kratides. He was last seen entering a black BMW, the very same that you got in in front of your flat two days ago. They know how to avoid being tracked, the trace is lost somewhere around Charing Cross both times, however they were not so careful with young Ms. Sophie, who is mentioned in a facebook post to be the new girlfriend of a Mr. Reginald Musgrave. The gentleman lives in a Manor in Beckenham. He inherited the house and all of his parents debts 5 years ago. I suppose money would be a very obvious motive for any crime." He closed his laptop dramatically, looking very pleased with himself. Mr. Melas looked at him in awe. "How'd you find out all that so quickly?" "I occupy a minor position in the british government."

Greg shook his head in amusement. "And occasionally, he *is* the british government. And definitely a drama queen." He added affectionately.  
"Yeah right, er, so what are you gonna do about this?" The interpreter asked, looking at Mycroft.  
He rolled his eyes. "I guess we could drive over to the mansion and see what this is all about since we have nothing better to do and I see Inspector Lestrade here is eager to go running about, catching criminals again. On his holiday, I might add." Greg got out of his chair, full of excitement. "But we take your case!" He declared happily. Mr. Melas got up to shake his hand. "Thank you! I can finally sleep at night!"

Mycroft had insisted that they took the sleek black sports car, driver and all, in order to be as suspicious as possible. They got out a few blocks away from the manor and walked the rest of the way.  
"Why are we even doing this? Couldn't we just send a few minions out to check on the guy?" Mycroft sighed. "We aren't Sherlock and John, you know."  
Greg laughed "No we aren't" he stuck out his chest proudly. "We're way sexier!"

The manor was not as glamorous as their client had led them to believe. Its façade was cracked and dirty, the windows hadn't been cleaned in ages and the front porch was covered in wild plants. Remains of a cobblestone front yard could be seen under a cover of dirt and moss. The place looked deserted. They rang the bell and knocked but no one opened the door.  
"It rained last night, had they left with the car we'd see tire tracks in the mud. Newspaper hasn't been taken in, no footprints anywhere, curtains are pulled back but there's no light…" Mycroft muttered thoughtfully. He rang the bell and waited. Nothing happened. "Thought so…" "Thought what?" Greg asked. His companion stepped aside, gesturing at the door. "If you would be so kind and kick it in. The lock is a very old-fashioned one, it would hardly be a challenge for you." "You do realize we don't have a warrant? We'd be breaking and entering." Mycroft shrugged. "I prevented my brother from being charged for a murder that was witnessed by 5 security cameras and 10 special agents, I'm sure I got a little break-in covered." Greg shook his head slightly "You really are a Drama-Queen."  
The door gave in at the first try, revealing a gloomy looking hallway. They stepped in, Mycroft holding on to his umbrella, Greg with his hand at his revolver. "Doesn't look like anyone's home…" "Someone searched the place" Mycroft added, pointing at the disarranged décor. At the end of the corridor, a door stood ajar. It led to a large living room, furnished with old oak shelves and a worn-out leather couch. Papers lay spread over the floor, books had been torn out of the shelf and the arm-chairs had been thrown over. The detective kneeled down, searching through the books. They were nothing special, only volumes of dictionaries and encyclopedias on English history.

"Mycroft!" Greg called, picking something up from between the chaos. It was a very familiar looking, long black coat. "Sherlock." Mycroft whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

"What was he doing here?" Mycroft asked, inspecting the coat closely. His face had gone pale, his brows drawn together in worry. "He would have never left this behind, yet it has not been worn for at least a day." Greg leaned against the bookshelf, staring at his phone. "Can't reach him on his phone either. Can't you track him?" Mycroft shook his head. "He took precautions after he felt I was keeping too close an eye on him, why do you think I had an entire team supervise the security cameras around the area?" They looked around the room, sorting through the scattered papers on the floor. Documents on family trees, notes on the history of the house and some scribbled calculations, though Greg couldn't see what they were for. He pulled a piece of yellow parchment from the pile, holding it up to his partner. "This one stands out. What d'you reckon, how old is it?" Mycroft turned it over in his hands, eyeing the fragile paper carefully. It had been folded many times, the ink was slightly faded in some places and edges were torn. "It was kept in a book for many years, judging by the severity of the fold, a very packed bookshelf. The colour of the paper shows that it was kept in the dark for a very long time, only recently it had been lying in the open where the sun could bleach out the ink and paper. The handwriting and the texture of the parchment would suggest it's at least a hundred years old." He held it up and read the text out loud:

'Whose was it?' 'Who shall have it?' 'Where was the sun?' 'Where was the shadow?' 'How was it stepped?' 'What shall we give for it?' 'Why should we give it?'

Mycroft furrowed his brows thoughtfully, pacing up and down, punching his umbrella in the carpet. Then he stopped, his head snapping back to the messy desk. Papers and books flew around as he searched through them with cold determination. At last, he collected a few shreds of parchment, as old and fragile looking as the first one, lying them out on the tabletop like puzzle pieces. They formed a second set of notes, written in the same handwriting and ink.

'He who is gone.' 'He who will come.' 'Over the oak.' 'Under the elm.' 'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five,  
south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.' 'All that is ours.' 'For the sake of the trust.'

"Questions and answers. The riddle Mr Melas had to ask Kratides about?" Greg suggested. He took the paper and read the words again. "Any idea what it could mean?"  
Mycroft closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Directions. There must be an oak tree whose shadow marks a certain start point from which you walk the said steps. Judging by the books and notes on the history of the building and the family I'd say it's a secret no one could figure out for many decades." "A secret treasure?" Greg's eyes lit up with excitement. He stepped to the window, looking out in the garden. "Problem is, there's no trees. Only stumps and dirt and wild bushes. And without sunlight there are no shadows." The sky was a dark gray, thick clouds promising more rain. Someone seemed to have tried to clean the wilderness that was the garden but had given up on some point. Bushes grew over the remains of shredded tree trunks, dirt and leaves were piled up on the sides, shovels lay neglected in the mud. The sun was starting to sink behind the houses, drenching the scene in a gloomy light. Greg turned to look at Mycroft, who was still standing still, clutching Sherlock's coat, eyes closed. There was something exciting about going on a case with him. He might have enjoyed it if it weren't for the worries about Sherlock and John. Carefully, he took the coat out of his partner's hands. "He's Sherlock, he'll be fine." He whispered. Mycroft opened his eyes, his face hardening, the mask of ice built up again. "Worrying will not help them either way, so we should continue looking for him either way. Call for your least irritating back-up."

It hurt Greg's soul to watch his partner as he moved through the garden, his face cold and set. He moved with the precision of a blood hound, inspecting the tree stumps, then he stopped and closed his eyes, thinking in the way Lestrade had seen Sherlock do it many times. He wondered if Mycroft had a mind palace thing too. "The number of rings in the tree stump suggest that the elm was about 120 years old, so obviously it must've been about 50 feet in height. The oak over there was even older and taller. If the sun was just over the branches of the elm, then the oak – 60 to 70 feet in height – cast a shadow in that direction…" he muttered, jogging a straight line away from the second tree stump. Greg followed, listening intently. Mycroft pressed his umbrella in the dirt, then walked on, taking careful steps, repeating the notes from the parchment. "'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one" He stopped on a patch of loose soil and dropped his umbrella. "and so under." he said, picking up one of the shovels nearby. He started digging frantically, oblivious to the mud staining his expensive suit. Without hesitation, Greg grabbed the other shovel and helped with the digging. It didn't take them long to find what they were looking for, since the dirt seemed to have been moved some time earlier and only roughly thrown back into place. Rusty metal appeared from under the mud, slowly revealing itself from the dirt was an old-fashioned trap-door. With a grunt the two men moved to open it. It was extraordinarily heavy and took all their efforts to lift it.

Soil and small rocks tumbled down into the dark pit beneath with a soft thud. Greg pulled out a torch, directing the beam of light down. The descent was a couple of feet deep, the walls were made of stone and a rusty iron ladder led down to the gray marble floor. "We need something to keep the trapdoor in place." Mycroft said, picking up his umbrella and the shovel and jammed it between the heavy lid and the dirt. Greg looked at him in concern. "Shouldn't we wait for the back-up?" His companion flashed his eyes at him in fury" There's no time!" he snapped and began the descent into the darkness. Inspector Lestrade sighed and followed him.

Underground, the air was stale and thick, the walls damp and the ceiling so low, they had to duck quite a bit. A narrow tunnel led them to a small chamber, walls and floor of marble, filled with rows of mouldy wine barrels. They turned around the corner and -

Greg froze, his heart stopping, breath caught in his chest. Behind the barrels were the figures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, lying motionless on the ground. Sherlock had his arms protectively wrapped around John, the Doctor's head pulled to his chest. They were both injured, blood staining the marble.

Mycroft dashed forward, falling to his knees next to his brother, checking for a pulse. Greg followed quickly, pressing his fingers to John's throat. A pulse was beating very feebly under his fingertips. "We've got to get them out of here, quickly!" his partner shouted and they dragged the motionless men back to the tunnel. Together, they pulled their friends out of the underground and placed them on the wet soil. "They need oxygen! Unbutton his shirt, stretch his neck, see if he breathes, if he doesn't start with CPR!" Mycroft instructed, tearing the buttons of his brother's shirt. Greg followed the orders, checking on John's breathing. The doctor's chest rose and fell feebly. In the distance, sirens sounded through the silent town at last. The men sat, waiting in the cold mud, watching over their friends.

Mycroft stroked Sherlock's head affectionately, his gaze clouded with worry. He ran his fingers through the messy, dark curls, remembering how Sherlock used to come into his room at night, when he'd had nightmares, and crawled under his older brother's blanket. Mycroft would pull him into his arms, stroke his curly head and tell him a story about brave heroes and their adventures, until his little brother fell asleep. He never told him that sometimes he had nightmares too and then he would come to Sherlock's bedroom door and just listen to the quiet, gentle breathing. How many times had he awoken in his adult life, in the middle of the night, staring in the darkness and missing his little brother beside him?

Suddenly, Sherlock drew a deep breath and opened his eyes, looking around him in surprise. He jumped up, with a cry of shock, only to lose his balance and fall back into his brother's arms. Mycroft held him, making a soothing noise as if to calm a frightened animal. "Shh it's okay Sherlock, it's okay! You're safe, it's okay, I'm here!" The detective sank back against the familiar chest, his breathing calming. "John?" he asked, turning around. "He's breathing." Greg said softly. His chest ached with sympathy at the pained expression in his friend's eyes, as he moved forward, touching John's cheek with careful affection. One hand holding onto John's, he leaned back into his brother, forcing himself to breath slowly. "How – How did you find us?" he asked. "It doesn't matter now, Sherlock." Mycroft whispered. "It can wait." His little brother nodded. "Rosie?" "With our parents." "Okay." He closed his eyes, resting his head against his brother's shoulder. Noise rose as the police cars and the ambulance stopped with screeching wheels and officers a came running down into the garden. As the paramedics loaded Sherlock and John onto stretchers and carried them up to the ambulance, Greg couldn't help but take Mycroft's hand, as he stood, watching, covered in mud, and gently kiss his cheek.


	8. Chapter 8

Hospital, again. Greg shifted uncomfortably in his small chair, staring at the door with the same worried anticipation as every other person in the waiting room. Mycroft was pacing up and down on the corridor outside, making phone calls.  
The neon lights flickered and buzzed, making him even more nervous than he already was. Sherlock's condition was stable, aside from a minor hypoxemia after almost suffocating in the underground chamber and a few bruises but John was still in surgery, having suffered a severe blow to the head and a stab wound in the shoulder that lost him a lot of blood. The police force had found no weapons or any other trace of what had happened and where the inhabitants of the manor could have gone. Mycroft had been too upset to take another look. Mr Melas had disappeared, his phone had been found smashed at the side of the road and no one had much hope that he was still alive. The Holmes parents had been informed and were on their way to the Hospital, much to their son's annoyance.

Greg jumped as the door of the waiting room opened and a nurse came in. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?" He nodded and followed her outside, where Mycroft was already waiting impatiently. "Mr Holmes is awake. You may ask him some questions now, but make sure not to upset him, his heart is still rather weak. All this drug abuse really hasn't done him very good." Shaking her head, she went back into the waiting room.

It was a strange Déjà vu, entering the room with the yellow lights and the steady beeping of machines. Sherlock was covered in tubes, including one under his nose for extra oxygen. Greg's heart ached as he saw the many scars on his lower arms, showing that it was not the first time a needle had pierced his skin.  
"Hey bro!" Sherlock said weakly. "They refuse to give me any morphine, can you believe it?" Mycroft sat down next to his brother. "They probably know better."  
"You're getting mud all over my room, brother mine."  
"I'd say you're attitude is much dirtier, dearest brother."  
"Touché." Sherlock grinned. "Thank you, Mycroft. 'Guess you kinda saved my life or something." "You were lucky! If Melas had hesitated to take the case to Bakerstreet we would've been too late." Greg, who was silently leaning against the window, raised his head. "What was that all about anyways? How come you were at that house?" Mycroft turned to look at him. "The woman, Sophie Kratides, was Sherlock's client. He had a note from her in his coat pocket. I assume she was a hostage and somehow managed to contact you?" He asked, turning back to his brother, who nodded, sitting up straight. Breathing slowly, he started his narrative:

"Ms Kratides contacted me a week ago. She said her boyfriend, Mr Reginald Musgrave, was starting to scare her. Apparently, he had forbidden her to enter the basement, keeping the key always with him, getting mad whenever he mentioned it. She didn't think much of it until one night when she couldn't sleep due to a headache, she went to get some aspirin and heard noises coming from behind the basement door. Someone seemed to be screaming in agony. She couldn't open the door, so she tried to call the police. The servant stopped her, told her it was just a video game and nothing to worry about. Later, Mr Musgrave threatened to kick her out on the street should she ever mention the basement to anyone. Being a poor foreigner that would've caused her quite the trouble but there was some intuition that caused her to ask me for help. Ms Sophie was not allowed to leave the house, so she sent a note to Bakerstreet.

John and I investigated and found out that the Kratides' have an old history with the Musgraves that the girl isn't aware of. The Musgraves are a very old family that has been living in that manor for many years. They were forced to disappear, however, about a hundred years ago. Two brothers were inhabiting the house at that time, and they were part of a complex criminal web. Mainly though, they would send their men to abduct a child from wealthy politicians or other people of public interest that couldn't afford negative publicity, the cops would make sure all evidence disappeared and the families had no other choice but to pay to get their child back. The wine chambers -there's much more to see under the garden than what you saw – were a perfect prison for the abducted children, as well as a hide-out for wanted criminals and occasionally a laboratory for illegal substances.

When the police finally drew their web around them, they knew they'd have to disappear. Hid a part of their fortune as well as any of their records in the wine chambers that had served as prison for their victims. One of them eventually proposed that ridiculous riddle, split in half to make sure they could only find it together. Rather melodramatic, really. One of the Musgrave brothers disappeared somewhere in Wales, the other went to Greece. Now what happened is pretty obvious, the brother living in Wales stays under cover, gets married and has a daughter, a successful reporter by the name of Juliana Musgrave. Whether he mentioned his secret to anyone or she found out about cannot be known. After her father's death, the child steps froward, claiming the heritage to the house, her lawyer punches her through and she tries to find the fortune. Only having the questions, not the answers, she is helpless.

Years later, Juliana and her new husband die an untimely death, leaving both the house and the riddle to their son Reginald. Possibly by mere coincidence, the boy finds records of the family's history -the ones that you probably saw as you were searching the manor. He travels to Greece on the track of his lost relatives and meets Sophie, who does not know about the family secret. What exactly happened between them can only be told by the two themselves but we do know Reginald eventually took Sophie to England with him. Paul Kratides finds out about it and follows them. Musgrave meets him with his team of minor criminals and locks him up in his basement. Through some way or another he must have found out that the brother knew about the riddle and quite possibly how to solve it. My guess is he or his sister showed off at some point.

Having figured this out through our extensive research, we went to confront Mr Musgrave and free the poor Kratides siblings from him. But, as I said in my text to Lestrade, I miscalculated. Musgrave seems to follow in his grandfather's footsteps now. He is far more organized than I anticipated and he took me by surprise. Four of his footmen waited for us in the house, we were handcuffed and shown to the master of the house. When we refused to help them, they locked us in the basement to Paul Kratides. My greek is rather poor but it was enough find out they were getting him out regularly to talk to different interpreters, trying to get him to help them. I couldn't tell him to make the next interpreter call the police, as he would certainly be too intimidated and Musgrave would get suspicious.  
Instead, Kratides told Melas to seek help in Bakerstreet, by translating both the words "baker" and "street" to greek in order to keep the guards from understanding. I had hoped Lestrade would be there and get my brother's help.

They grew impatient very quickly, though, and decided to take John as … motivation for me. They stabbed a knife in his shoulder to show me they meant it, so I had no other choice but to help them. I tried to leave as many clues for you as possible.  
We found the trapdoor, Musgrave and his men went in with us. There were journals, records, instructions, any kind of information about getting about in London's web of criminals. And of course, the fortune. Expensive jewellery and stones, gold bars, anything that could have been tracked by the police but is now very easy to sell on the black market.

They got what they wanted. Musgrave and his men left, there was a struggle in which was John was badly injured, we were locked away in the darkness. John lost consciousness and I knew we would be running out of oxygen eventually but there was nothing I could do."

He spoke slowly, taking breaks to keep his breathing at ease. As he reached the end of his story, Sherlock's voice broke and tears gathered in his eyes. He looked up at his brother.

"Thank you." He whispered again. Mycroft took his hand.  
There was a knock at the door and the nurse came in. "Mr. Holmes? Doctor Watson is out of surgery, his condition is stable, the stab wound is infected but he is young and strong. We are very confident he will pull through." "When can I see him?" "He's in quarantine for now, there's nothing I can do. Tomorrow, if you are fit enough and his body reacts well to the antibiotics. You should rest now, anyway, and you two will have to leave. Enough excitement for the day." She said kindly.  
Mycroft and Greg said their goodbyes and left the hospital room, returning to the now considerably more empty waiting room, where Mr and Mrs Holmes were waiting anxiously for news.

The morning after the events at the old Musgrave Manor was a sunny and warm one. Sunlight poured through the dirty window of John Watson's hospital room, reflecting on the white sheets and making the flowers on the bedside table glow in rich colours. John was still unconscious, sleeping under an enormous pile of blankets, tubes and cables all over the place. Sherlock leaned on Mycroft, sitting next to his friend's bed, a tube still running under his nose to supply him with extra oxygen.

"I was afraid." He said quietly. Mycroft cocked his head to the side "Sorry?".  
"I was afraid of dying." His eyes slid out of focus, the horror of the previous day reflecting on his face. "It was so dark and cold and there was no one to hear me scream. Then I remembered" he smiled weakly "how I used to crawl in your bed at night, when I had a nightmare, and you would save me from the monsters inside my head and the darkness would stop being frightening. I knew you'd come." Tears glistened in Mycroft's eyes, as he put his arms around his little brother. "Always." he said quietly.

For a while, the brothers sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts and memories. Sherlock listened to the steady beeping of the machines, the sounds that meant John was alive and save. Suddenly, he opened his eyes, turning to his brother. "Have you ever wanted to say something but you didn't know how? Were you ever so scared of saying something out loud but at the same time it just tore you apart to keep it a secret?" Mycroft's heart skipped a beat and he looked at his brother in surprise. A thousand questions and theories stormed through his head. This couldn't be it, it was all wrong, he wasn't ready. "Why do you ask?" he said breathlessly.  
"Because when you find yourself in a situation where death seems almost inevitable, then it's not your life flashing before your eyes, but the people who mattered in it. And then you realize that you never told them what they mean to you." Sherlock said, looking at John. His brother relaxed. "Since when do we talk about our feelings?" he asked, confused. Sherlock shrugged. "I guess children make you soft. Or the near-death experiences, of which I had my fair share over the past months. You're my brother, you keep the deepest secrets of the entire country, I thought you were a reliable person to confess to" Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "You can trust me." Sherlock nodded.  
He swallowed hard, looking at his brother with a pained expression. "I love him, Mycroft. I am hopelessly in love with John. And I'm afraid if he knew, things would never be the same again."  
"How do you know he doesn't feel the same?"  
"You know how people always assumed we were dating, he always reacted very cross to that. He said so many times that he isn't interested in men. And it's okay. God knows I'm not the easiest person to be friends with and yet he has always been incredibly loyal and kind. John Watson saved me. And simply being friends with him, getting to wake up to find him in the kitchen and seeing him play with his daughter before going to bed, that is an incredible privilege. He is the most wonderful human being I ever met. I wondered if there was a way to tell him that, to tell him how special and wonderful he is and how grateful I am without giving away what I actually feel." He buried his face in hands in despair, sighing.

"Bit too late now, anyway."

Sherlock rose his head, looking up in shock and amazement. John had opened his eyes, an amused grin on his face. He sat up a bit, chuckling softly. "I always wanted to know how you talk about me behind my back but this is quite unexpected."

Sherlock stared, blood drained from his face, his heart beating faster, so loud it felt like the entire city must've heard it. "I'm – I just – you -"

"You are such an idiot!" John said affectionately and, leaning forward carefully, took Sherlock's face in his hands. "Deduce this." he smirked and kissed him, hesitantly and gently, pulling Sherlock towards him by the neck. The beeping of the machine sped up, but neither of them noticed. They were lost in each other, a tangle of hands so familiar yet so new, the tension, that had been there since the very beginning, fell, leaving them to fall together.

Silently, Mycroft stood up and left the room with a smile on his lips and one less worry on his mind.


	9. Chapter 9

For many years, Sherlock had thought emotions to be the most fatal error in human nature, a distraction that kept them from reaching their full potential. He had tried to lock away any feelings he might have had for people in his life, his body had just been transport for a remarkable brain. Never would he have allowed himself to get attached to anyone.  
And then John Watson limped into St Bart's Hospital, a lost and lonely man who had somehow managed to sneak behind all barricades Sherlock had built around himself. Together, they had saved each other from themselves and, inevitably, Sherlock Holmes had fallen hopelessly in love with him.

Never had he been unsatisfied with their friendship, he was perfectly happy just seeing John's face very morning, smiling in amusement as he removed whatever severed body parts where lying on the breakfast table. Even as John got married, he satisfied himself with the thought that at least Mary loved him as he did, that he was happy and safe and loved.  
Sherlock would have never dreamed that one day he would get to feel his love's warm embrace and taste his lips. He had never known how good kissing could be. His stomach prickling with excitement, his heart beating fast, chest almost aching with endless happiness. It wasn't his first kiss but it was the first that really mattered. His world was suddenly full of colour, so much warmer and brighter with so much more to live for than crime and brain-work.  
"Sherlock..." John whispered, his hands tangled in black curls, their foreheads pressed together.  
"Jawn..." Sherlock answered with a grin.  
"I love you." "Yeah, I deduced that." "Idiot." He laughed and kissed him again.

John had carefully arranged his cables and tubes so Sherlock could sit on his bed. Curled against his chest, he forgot the pain in his head and shoulder. Breathing was much easier. Everything was easier. He ran his fingertips over the thin cotton fabric of Sherlock's hospital gown. For so long he had wondered what it would feel like, running his hands over the muscular chest that was always so teasingly outlined under the tight shirts Sherlock usually wore. Why had he even worried so much? Lying in Sherlock Holmes' arms was the most natural thing to do. Tracing his long, thin fingers, kissing his extraordinary cheekbones, finally getting to run his fingers through the thick, curly hair.  
"John?" Sherlock's voice was trembling slightly and John could feel his heart beat fast under his palm. "Yes Sherlock?" He took a deep breath, lacing his fingers with John's. "Does this mean we're… dating?" John chuckled warmly. "Sherlock, we have basically been married for four years." he turned around to look in Sherlock's eyes, warm and vulnerable and of the most extraordinary colours. He blushed. "Yes" John whispered "Sherlock Holmes, I would like to call you my boyfriend." Sherlock smiled shyly. "Hmm partner in crime" he murmured, burying his face in John's neck.

"They couldn't have waited another months, could they?" Greg asked, after hearing what his partner had witnessed in John Watson's hospital room. "Now I owe Mrs. Hudson dinner. I can practically hear her say "I told you so!" "he laughed. They were back in Mycroft's kitchen, trying to busy Rosamund with a pack of crayons and a stack of paper. Mrs Hudson had collected a few items for Sherlock and John and was bringing them to the hospital, while the Holmes' parents were probably already welcoming John in their family. And quite possibly - Greg thought- wondering about the odds of having three children who were all terrifyingly psychopathic geniuses and flaming homosexual. He wondered if the universe had just decided it was better if the Holmes bloodline did not reproduce and thus made all of them gay.

"What are you thinking about, sweetheart?" Mycroft asked, leaning over the kitchen table.  
"uh" Greg blinked in confusion "nothing special. Just thinking about where to take Mrs H for the dinner." he smiled warmly. "You could come with us!"  
Mycroft arched his brow. "I do not think she would be too happy about that. The landlady isn't very fond of me, remember?"  
"Even more reason why you should go. She got the wrong impression. I'm sure she would be a lot warmer towards you if she, too, could see how you dedicate yourself to drawing flowers with a crayon." He walked around the table, hugging Mycroft, who had now dropped his pink crayon in embarrassment, from behind and resting his chin on his head. "You know, we've never really gone on a date together." He played with his partner's tie. "Not outside you office or your house."  
"Date" Mycroft said "sounds so normal. … And official." Greg leaned down and kissed his cheek. "we don't have to call it that. I'd just really like to spend some time with you. Have nice conversations, flirt and get lost in your eyes like a silly teenager." He grinned playfully. "you could at least think about it."

An hour later, Rosie had produced about 50 artworks, each a strange chaos of lines and shapes, some of them had been torn apart or chewed on as a little extra. She put an extra lot of dedication in her last one, though, and patiently filled an entire paper with every colour of crayon she could find. After ten minutes it was covered in a rainbow of shapes and the child herself looked like she had fallen in a paint pot. Giggling happily, she held it up to Mycroft, who smiled awkwardly. "Yes.. very nice… it's uhm probably.. flowers?" The child nodded thoughtfully and reached out, closing her stubby little fingers around Mycroft's thumb, waving the paper in his face with the other hand. He took it with a sigh and freed his hand from the sticky touch. Rosamund squealed, looking very pleased with herself. Despite himself, Mycroft grinned warmly and stuck the drawing to his fridge. "there. Happy now, you little monster?" he said affectionately and began cleaning up the mess of paper and pens. The little girl watched him thoughtfully. "You have two very patients dads, I wouldn't be able to put up with this every day. You are very sticky and noisy." He frowned as he realized how ridiculously high-pitched his voice automatically became whenever he talked to the child. Stupid human nature.

The door opened and he heard his mother's voice ring through the hallway. "Ah Greg sweetheart, good to see you dear!" and Greg's deep voice answering in confusion "We only saw each other yesterday Wanda."  
Mrs Holmes rushed towards her granddaughter with the precision of a hunter catching it's pray, scooping her up and holding her in arms as if determined to never let anyone else touch her again. Women's instinctive protectiveness towards small humans had always irritated Mycroft but in the past days he had been exceptionally grateful for it. "Have you heard, Rosie, you are now quite officially my granddaughter now! About time too!" She rocked the child gently in her arms.

"Oh you finally decorated the sad fridge!" Mr Holmes smiled. "You know, I still have the drawings you made for your mother and I, kept them all safe in the attic." Mycroft frowned. "They weren't drawings, they were plans and calculations." His father laughed happily at the memory. "Oh yes, you had a lot of very creative ideas for world domination when you were 8 years old."  
"Some things never change." Greg said fondly.

"We should have a family dinner!" Mrs Holmes declared "As soon as Sherlock and John are well enough to leave the hospital we-" "Should traumatize them until they wish to be back in that cold, smelly room?" Mycroft commented. "Oh shush you, at least try to be human for a day, will you!" she nudged her son's shoulder, eyes twinkling playfully. "While we are at it, why don't we spend this evening together? We could play some nice board games!" She might as well have proposed to go swimming with starving sharks, the way her husband shook his head in terror and Mycroft jumped up, announcing "Oh mother dear, you know how I would love to play like a five year old but unfortunately I have a very important dinner with Gregory. I believe it's what people call a 'date'." Wanda arched her brows in surprise. "Oh I am very happy for you. But you know, you are a drama queen, Mycroft Holmes!" "They get that from you, love." Her husband said fondly.


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft Holmes could not recall ever feeling this nervous about a dinner. In fact, he couldn't really remember feeling nervous at all, since human emotions had not really been his area until recently.  
He smoothed the fabric of his suit and straightened his tie again. It scared him more than he liked to admit that he was actually going on a date. With Gregory. Together. And this suggested a certain relationship between the two of them which was something he wasn't ready to think about. The door opened with a creak and Greg stepped in, leaning against the door frame, equally nervous. "You know, sometimes I wonder how I could have not seen how extremely sexy a man in a good suit is for so many years." he scanned him with his eyes, biting his lip thoughtfully.  
"Probably because you haven't many nicely dressed men before." Mycroft said. "Oi posh boy, I might have!" Greg answered. "Did you really have to get limousine for tonight? A simple cab would have done." Mycroft looked slightly hurt, crossing his arms. "I … I just have standards." He said, pushing past Greg, putting on his coat. Greg sighed. How could he have possibly messed up already?

The car ride was frosty and awkward. Mycroft was very tense and Greg felt absolutely helpless. He leaned his head against the window, watching the houses pass in a blur, their lights dancing on the cold glass. Music was pouring from the driver's radio, making him feel like in a sad rom-com scene.  
"You're hopelessly romantic, Gregory." Mycroft said softly,"I sometimes envy you for that." He looked at Greg with curiosity, his blue eyes open and vulnerable. "You're taking me to a fancy, expensive restaurant in a shiny car, I'm pretty sure you got some cheesy romance in you." he answered.  
The car stopped and the driver opened the door. Greg climbed out, looking in awe at the elegant building in front of him, façade painted a dark gray, the name spelled in shiny letters above the large glass door. Fairy lights decorated the entrance, wrapped around small trees and climbing up the pillars. Mycroft straightened his tie nervously. "You look gorgeous." Greg whispered, before opening the door for his date. A waiter greeted them and led them to their table. On the inside it was even fancier, glass chandeliers casting a romantic golden glow over the red velvet chairs. Paintings and statues decorated the room, classic music was playing. Everyone was so elegantly dressed that Greg was starting to feel self-conscious in his old 'in-case-of-a-wedding" suit. A candle was lit for them and a waiter took their orders (Greg was terribly intimidated by the french names and let Mycroft order for him.).  
An elderly couple at the table a few feet away stared at them, whispering. Greg met the old lady's eyes, smiling politely. The lady narrowed her eyes and shot him a venomous glance, before turning her attention back to the gentleman. On the other side of their table, a young woman was conspicuously glancing at them from behind her hair, smiling and giggling.  
Greg decided that humans were endlessly weird.  
The waiter came back, placing large, shiny plates on their table.  
"You know it's a fancy restaurant cuz they serve you tiny meals on huge plates" He murmured. Mycroft rolled his eyes, smiling. "Well, you're not wrong." He began picking apart his food with an impressive elegance, leaving his date to stare at his plate in confusion. Why were there so many forks?  
"This is where the conversation part begins." Greg said.  
Mycroft looked up, blushing nervously. "Well, what would talk about in a … romantic situation?"  
"Tell me about yourself."  
"There isn't much to tell."  
"How did you end up working for the government?"  
"That is too classified to be talked about in the public."  
"Fine. Uhm… Have you ever had a relationship? In your youth, silly little two-week crushes?"  
Mycroft hesitated, lowering his hands.  
"I don't think we should talk about that, either."  
"My first relationship lasted eight months." Greg said. "I was 17 and I suppose I was a little desperate at that time. She was looking more for a minion than a boyfriend and constantly ordered me around, but I felt like if I didn't stay with her, I'd be alone forever. Only after she cheated on me for the second time I felt like I really deserved better." Mycroft was watching him curiously, listening with a fascination one might find in a child hearing a foreign language. "A few years after that I met my ex-wive" Greg continued. "And it was pretty much the same story all over again. She was lovely at first, of course, charming and dedicated. The first years of our marriage were really happy. But I guess she got bored. Some day I wasn't enough anymore." He exhaled slowly, realizing that he had never really talked about his failed marriage with anyone. Worrying that he might just sound like a whiny old man, he glanced at Mycroft, but the other man was listening intently. He cleared his throat. "Well you know how it ended. For the longest time I wondered if there was anything I could have done to save it. What I had done wrong. At some point I guess I just realized that sometimes people are just bloody assholes and it's not my fault." Mycroft smiled, nodding slowly.  
"Am I… Am I the first man, that you … go out with?" he asked carefully.  
"As far as I remember I've never really been interested in any man before." Greg answered. "But then I met you and there was something I couldn't resist. I don't know if that makes me gay or bi and I don't really care. You're beautiful."  
Mycroft drew a long breath, straightening his shoulders.  
"You're my first." He said."I've had … interests when I was young. But I was not a very confident child and neither did I think I would actually benefit from any romantic entanglements. In my teen years there were some moments of weakness but altogether I always prided myself in keeping my distance from emotion of any kind." he placed his hands over Greg's, curling his fingers around them. "So you are the first one who matters," he whispered.

The air was split with the sound of glass breaking. On the table next to them, the old lady had dropped her glass in shock, her face flushed, she stood up, waving her fist at them. "Disgusting! That you have rub it into our faces! I don't care what you do in your bedrooms but there is no need to bring your lifestyle in a place like this and shove it down our throats!"  
Mycroft pulled his hands away, his face hardening, though the pain was clear in his eyes. Greg jumped to his feet immediately, shielding Mycroft from her view. "There's no need for this." He said with the calm, authoritative voice of a police officer, though his heart was beating fast and he felt dizzy. Waiters rushed towards the angry woman, trying to calm the situation, another came to their table, muttering apologies. The lady, was now shouting even louder, complaining to the staff about how 'people like that' were even allowed in such societies. A soft mumbling went through the other guests, but they had turned their heads, trying to ignore the scene.  
Greg signalled Mycroft to get up with a gentle touch to the shoulder and told their waiter to send them the bill. As they moved towards the door, he was vaguely aware of the young girl who had watched them earlier jumping up, stating that it was 2017 and people were allowed to date whoever they chose.

The noise of angry customers was muffled by the heavy door closing behind them and died away as they walked down the empty street. Mycroft was walking quickly, without direction, his face cold and hard. Greg followed him quietly, a few feet of distance between them. The wind blew in face, although it was quite warm for a february night, we was shivering. They followed the street for a while, before reaching an empty parking lot. With a few curt words, Mycroft ordered their driver to pick them up. Knowing that there was no chance of talking to him now, Greg just waited silently, his chest aching with the desire to pull him into his arms and tell him that it was alright.

The door of Mycroft's house slammed shut behind them. Somehow, the following silence pierced Greg's ears. He followed his partner wordlessly, watching him put his coat on the hanger with an eerie calm and stalk of into his dressing room. "You should pick up your things and leave." he said curtly.  
"I won't" Greg said, closing the door behind him, leaning against it.  
"I wish to be alone." Mycroft said coldly, his head raised defiantly.  
Greg shook his head. "Don't. Mycroft please, don't do this." He took a step forward, carefully , as if he were approaching a wounded animal. "You can talk to me. You can trust me."  
There was a long silence, the two men looking at each other, unspoken words floating between them, filling the air with tension. No sound but their strained breathing.

Then, Mycroft dropped onto the divan, reaching out his hand to Greg. He joined him, kicking off his shoes and pulling up his legs. His eyes were warm with affection, his gaze open, honest and completely vulnerable.

Greg looked at Mycroft and for the first time since their kiss in his office, he seemed to really look back, all the walls crashing down at last. There was fear in his eyes, written in the glistening of tears, the soft creases on his forehead and the nervous biting of his lip. The ice-man, without any masquerade. He ran his fingertips over Greg's cheeks, down his neck and rested his palm on his chest. For a moment, Mycroft just quietly looked in his eyes, feeling the heartbeat under his hand, calm and steady. He drew a slow breath. "I always knew" he whispered "ever since I was a teenage boy, that I – that I was homosexual. But it never bothered me much since I had long decided I would not engage in any type of relationship, romantic or sexual. I found men attractive sometimes when I was young, but the older I got the more I distanced myself from any type of feelings. They got in the way of my thought process. Relationships of any kind were nothing but a distraction that needed to be avoided at all costs. Alone was what protected me, being distanced from any other human being, it felt safe and logical. Sherlock was quite the same. But when he met Doctor Watson, something about him changed."  
His eyes drifted of, focusing on a memory only he could see, as his eyes filled with tears.  
"My little brother was more alive than I had seen him in many years. We all saw that. And the more I watched him and John the more I began to wonder … And then" he smiled softly "I met you. And you were so different. Everyone, even my own brother, saw the cold man of the British government, the machine without a heart. But you seemed to see so much more than that. All these times you came to report about a case or my dear brother's many worries and you stayed to just … talk. To tell stories and to listen. You gave me your heart so willingly, so full of trust and love." Tears rolled down Mycroft's face, making Greg's heart burst with sympathy. "You wanted to know why I do not want people to know about us - you deserve to know why." his voice cracked as he continued "I am afraid. Not about the comments of people like that dreadful woman but… I don't want to lose you. Yet, if people see us, if people know about us then there will be an "us" and that – that indicates a …a real relationship.  
You've been married, you've dated people. But I am not good with human interaction. I don't know what is expected of me, what I am supposed to do, I – I don't want to start something because that means it will end.  
Gregory..." he whispered, his voice warm with affection. "I'm afraid. I do not want to lose you. I don't want to disappoint you or to hurt you."  
He lowered his head, hands dropping on his knees. Greg gently pushed him against his chest, closing his arms around him, burying his face in Mycroft's hair. "Mycroft…" he took a deep breath "I want you. All of you. I want to be a part of your life. I want to be by your side, to be able to touch you and kiss you, fall asleep in your arms and wake up next to you." he smiled. "I'm hopelessly romantic and hopelessly in love. And I want you to be a part of me. And as long as you want that as well we will always find a way. No matter what anyone thinks or says, because they don't matter, we do. All we are ever going to need is each other." He pulled away slightly, putting his hand to Mycroft's chin, raising his head, looking into his eyes. A spark of happiness bloomed inside his chest. "You are so beautiful, do you know that? And I love you so much."

Mycroft was shaking but his voice was slowly regaining strength. "What do I do?" He asked.  
Greg smiled. "Be my boyfriend. Just for ourselves. We don't have to tell everyone immediately. Just you and me, together." "I don't know how." "Don't worry, my love. I'm afraid as well. But we can learn and grow together. That's what it's all about." he felt Mycroft exhale, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulder. He kissed him softly, his chest filling with warmth, stomache bubbling with glee. He was so warm and soft, gasping a little in surprise as their kiss grew more passionate, embracing each other, all the emotions, held back for so long, pouring out of them. It felt right and safe, there was no room for doubts or worries. Only him and Mycroft.

Greg undid his tie, opening the buttons of his shirt, Mycroft following the example shyly. He pulled back, taking a deep breath, tracing his lover's bare chest with his hands. His heart beat fast as he felt the bare skin under his fingertips. Mycroft admired him as well. He looked curious and frightened and absolutely amazed. Again, he placed his palm flat against Greg's chest, feeling the heart beat under the tough, scarred skin. He smiled. "You are so beautiful. I never knew that was possible. Beauty like that." he traced the muscles on his stomach, slightly cocking his head to the side. " I suppose it is rather… sexy." he whispered and blushed. Greg looked at him, an unspoken question in his eyes. Mycroft bit his lip nervously. "I have. Though it's been a very long time" he answered. "We … should probably not … go that far… if that's okay."  
Greg smiled and pulled him close, their bare skin touching, kissing Mycroft's cheek.. "Of course it's okay" he said. "All in your own time." Mycroft wrapped his arms around his neck, burying his face against Greg's throat, kissing the soft skin. "I love you" he whispered, leaning his cheek against his warm shoulder. "Boyfriend." he said, nodding thoughtfully, interlacing his fingers with Greg's.  
"Okay. I will be your Boyfriend, Gregory Lestrade."


	11. Chapter 11

Muffled sounds from the kitchen and warm, golden sunlight on his skin woke Mycroft the next morning. He blinked against the blinding light until his eyes adjusted to it. Outside, the sky was blue and clear. Everything looked so much brighter and more colourful than he had ever seen it. Greg was sleeping with his head on Mycroft's chest, breathing softly, eyelids twitching in a vivid dream. Their legs were tangled in the thin sheets and Mycroft felt the heat of his boyfriend's body on his skin. Boyfriend. He closed his eyes and let the memories of the previous night play through his head, feeling endless happiness like tiny fireworks in his stomach. The gentle touch, tender words and feelings he had never had before, not like this, not this strong and passionate and important. He wanted to kiss every inch of Greg's skin, to be as close to him as possible and never let him go. One day he would be, as close as a human could be to another and the thought brought a smile to his face and his cheeks blushed a soft pink.  
Warm, soft lips touched his and he opened his eyes to look in Greg's warm, brown ones. "Good morning." he whispered, his voice still hoarse with sleepiness. "Thinking naughty thoughts?"  
Mycroft laughed softly. "Just a general feeling of happiness. I do have a half naked, handsome man lying next to me." he whispered, glancing down Greg's bare chest. "hm-hm" Greg nodded, kissing Mycroft's collar bone "I know the feeling."  
There was a knock at the door."If you sweethearts are awake, breakfast is ready and it's a lovely day outisde!" Wanda Holmes sang sweetly and shuffled of without waiting for a reply. "I feel like a teenager again" Greg laughed and Mycroft buried his face in the pillows.

"We have some good news and some bad news, which do you want to hear first?" Mrs Holmes greeted them at the breakfast table. She and her husband had prepared a splendid, quite american breakfast with eggs, bacon and pancakes, and a vase of flowers in the middle of the table. "I don't like when people say that, it's so pointless. Neither one will change the other just because it's being said first." Mycroft said. His mother rolled her eyes. "Fine! The man who came to you, the Greek, his body was found in the Thames last night. I believe Gregory has some missed calls on his phone." "Is that the good news or the bas news?" Mycroft asked, dodging the rag his mother threw at him.  
"The good news is, John will return to Bakerstreet today, which means Rosie, your father and I will be out of your hair." "That really is good news, I am running out of paper for her to draw on. And as to the discovery of Mr Melas, no one was really expecting any other outcome, did they?" Mr Holmes sighed. "Do we have to talked about murder and corpses at the breakfast table?" "Just like old times, isn't it?"  
"So, Mycroft" Mr Holmes said in a desperate attempt to change the subject "How did your date go?"  
"Oh it was rather horrible, actually." Mycroft said calmly. "but it was a nice evening nevertheless."  
"You were home very early." His mother remarked.  
Mycroft looked at her irritably. "Mother, I am not a child who needs supervision!"  
"We're staying in the same house, Mykie, I just observed."  
"This is humiliating"  
"I'm your mother, it's my job!"  
Greg chuckled, padding his boyfriend's back sympathetically.  
Mr Holmes decided to save his son any further embarrassment and started asking a row of questions about Lestrade's family and career, leaving his wife to watch them with an amused twinkle in her eyes.

It was a pleasant afternoon, the february sun shining warmly through the bare branches of the tall oaks surrounding the park. Rosie was watching the ducks in the small pond, laughing merrily as her grandfather threw breadcrumbs in for them to catch and the creatures scuttled about, quacking loudly, much to the little girl's delight. Mycroft had bravely taken Greg's hand, and was looking slightly nervous as they walked around the garden. The other visitors, however, we mainly families with little children to look after or retired old couples and neither of them paid them a lot of attention. Mrs Holmes was staring at her new phone with a very serious expression, trying to take pictures of her granddaughter and her husband.

Greg closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the sun warm on his skin and Mycroft's hand in his.  
"A wonderful day to spend the last day of my vacation." he said.  
"Did they assign you the case of the Musgraves and Mr Melas' murder?" Mycroft asked.  
The detective nodded. "Probably gonna consult your brother on this, anyways. Though if they haven't found any trace of them so far, there really isn't a high chance of us finding them. Probably left the country."  
Mycroft arched his brow, shaking his head. "Oh Gregory, I wouldn't say so. They took a large amount of jewellery and solid gold out of that chamber, they will have to sell it somewhere if they want to make money. You just need to find out who has been trying to sell a hundred years old, dusty goods in a hurry. I could, of course, provide you with a reliable source, as long as the informant remains absolutely anonymous."  
Greg grinned and nodded. "Maybe I should consult you instead."  
"Oh please don't, I really do not do footwork. I'm only making an exception because they almost killed my brother and his companion. I will make sure they pay for that."  
"We'll get them." Greg said, pressing Mycroft's hand softly. "Oh and John texted me, he's feeling better, Sherlock is fussing over him, like a concerned parent and Mrs. Hudson is free this weekend so I only need to find a nice place to take her to."  
"I can make arrangements, of course"  
"No, you won't. My lost bet, my responsibility."

They stopped their walk, watching the Holmes' parents chat merrily with a young couple, bending over a small toddler. A dog was jumping up and down, trying to get their attention, until it gave up and busied itself chasing the ducks into the pond.  
Mycroft watched Greg fondly, happiness spreading through his chest at the sight of him, the sun glistening in his eyes, watching the dog happily.

Greg turned and met his eyes. They looked at each other for a moment. Then, with a mischievous grin, Greg pulled Mycroft into the shade of a large, old oak tree and gently pushed him against the trunk, gently kissing him. "Sorry, I couldn't resist." He whispered at Mycroft's surprised expression. "It's alright." Mycroft smiled, leaning his forehead against Greg's. The sun broke through the branches, warm on his skin, as he looked into endlessly loving, brown eyes. "You look so much happier now." Greg said. "Promise me, if you are ever worried about anything, just tell me." Mycroft nodded. "You make me very happy, Gregory Lestrade." He whispered with a playful smile, leaning his head against his boyfriend's shoulder.

"Excuse me?" a high pitched voice sounded and they looked around in confusion. A little redheaded girl was staring at them, head cocked to the side.  
"Are you married?" She asked.  
Greg laughed warmly, kneeling down so he was on eye-level. "No we aren't married."  
She furrowed her brows. "But you're together? Like a buy and a girl but with two boys?"  
Mycroft crossed his arms defiantly. "Yes, so what?"  
The girl bit her lip thoughtfully. "Then who does the cleaning?"  
"Well we both do." Greg explained. "But I'm the better cook."  
She seemed satisfied with his answer and nodded. "My aunt can't cook well. I wish I had two dads, then I wouldn't have to live with her. My name is Amelia." She stretched out her small hand.  
Greg shook it politely. "I'm Greg and that's Mycroft. Are you in the park all by yourself?"  
She shook her head. "I'm looking for a friend. He'll show up one day, I'm sure." She sighed. "But I'd better go or my aunt will be very cross." With a last goodbye she ran off again, her hair flying after her in an orange flame.

"Remember to call, dear!"  
"Yes mother, I will."  
"And do bring Gregory over for dinner sometimes."  
"I'll consider it."  
"And do look after your little brother!"  
"I always do."  
"I meant like a normal person would, phonecalls and visits, not security cameras and GPS tracking!"  
"Beggars can't be choosers!"  
"Myc!"  
"Yes, fine, I'll visit him. And now please leave, you're making everybody nervous!"  
Mr Holmes hugged his son tightly and Mrs Holmes planted a loving kiss on both Mycroft and Greg's cheeks, before the door closed behind them with a bang and her son dropped on the couch with a sigh.  
"You'd think we live oceans apart." He exhaled.  
"Well, neither do we, but I know I'll miss you when I'm back to work. We won't be seeing each other for a while, will we?"  
Mycroft shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid not, my love, I have ignored a lot of phone calls the last days and this country will be in trouble if I continue ignoring it. Also, I do believe you and my brother have a murderer to catch."  
"I'll think of something."  
Greg kissed Mycroft's forehead, then his cheek, then chin, going along his throat, until he reached the collar of his shirt. He grinned at him playfully. "Well since it is our last night together for a while, we should make it count."  
"Hmhm agreed." Mycroft's eyes lit up with excitement. "Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?" He asked.  
"Doctor Who marathon?"  
"Get your fez and bow-tie, I'll make the popcorn!"


	12. Chapter 12

Greg kicked away the chair in frustration. Still nothing. Not a single clue. Musgrave and his men had disappeared without a trace and with him the two Kratides, who were probably either dead or held hostage somewhere. He'd have to call on Sherlock Holmes after all.  
"Oi Greg, calm down. Since when do you get so upset about this?" Sally Donovan leaned against her desk, arms crossed, a look of confusion on her face. "Just ask the freak to help ya and we'll be fine."  
The inspector sunk his face into his hands. "Why can't we do something on our own once? One grand mystery solved all on our own, like proper adults."  
"You've never been bothered by asking for help before." Donovan remarked, worry clouding her face. "Maybe you should get some rest. You've been on ya feet for 48 hours."  
Greg shook his head wearily. He couldn't rest, not with all these loose ends. He knew Sally was right. It had never bothered him to ask Sherlock Holmes for help, despite the cold remarks and humiliating reports, it had always been an honour to watch him work. Furthermore, Greg would be looking forward to working with his friend again. But the last days had been hell, chasing a trail gone cold, finding nothing but doors slammed into their face and endless piles of paperwork.  
Sally padded him on the back encouragingly. "At least take a nap in your office, I'll keep an eye out." With a defeated sigh, Greg nodded and , thanking her, disappeared to his rooms, dropping on his chair, knowing that the uneasiness would make it impossible to fall asleep.

For a while, Lestrade sat with his head resting on the cold surface of his desk, staring into nothingness, trying to go over the details of the case in his head. How did Sherlock do this mindpalace thing anyway? He could barely stay focused on the facts, his mind drifting of, memories of gentle kisses and sparkling blue eyes. Ridiculous. It was as if he was a teenager again, his head in the clouds, when actual human lives where at stake. He banged his head against the table in frustration. Then he stopped, listening intently. A phone was ringing, quietly, and it wasn't his. Looking around the room, Greg found a small, old-fashioned mobile phone placed neatly in his drawer. He went cold all over. How could anyone even have access to his office? The place had been swarming with policemen all day. Taking a deep breath, he answered. "Hello?"  
A distorted, electronic voice answered. "There is a cab waiting outside. You will take it. You will ask no questions and you will tell no one. Do as I say and nobody will be harmed. I assume I do not have to explain the situation, Detective Inspector?" The call ended.  
Heart beating fast, Greg stormed out of the office with a mumbled excuse, a thousand thoughts and theories running through his mind. There was indeed a cab waiting outside. He approached it with an ice-cold decision and entered. "What is this? What do you want?" He asked the driver, an elderly man in a thick trenchcoat. To Greg's surprise, he answered. "Don't worry, Inspector, no one intends to harm you. My employer has information for you. You will not tell anyone of this. At the next stop, you will get out and change vehicles. I will take your mobile phone and any other traceable technology and make sure it comes back to you this evening." The man spoke with an educated and calm voice. The inspector narrowed his eyes, torn between curiosity and anxiety. "What if I don't?" He asked. The driver shrugged. "Then you can get out and walk home. Yet you won't find the villains you are looking for."

The change of cars took place in the middle of a long, winding road and the next car, a white van with the advertisement of a cleaning company on the sides, drove of with Greg in the back. They went on for a while, worries nagging the detective's stomach. At last, the van stopped and Greg was shown to a large warehouse. "Classy." He murmured, looking around the place, senses alert. It was gloomy and dusty, filled with old machinery, long forgotten and left to rot. Cardboard boxes with worn out labels were stacked at the edges. A bit of yellowish light fell from the high, small windows, casting long shadows over the dirty floor.  
"Apologies for the rather complicated journey." Sounded a sweet, female voice. "I did not wish to take chances with my security." A woman peeled herself from the darkness. She wore an elegant suit, her hair put up in a tight up-do, pronouncing the harsh but beautiful features of her face. Her pretty eyes were cold and playful, as she stretched herself dramatically on the cold metal of the machine.  
"Who are you?" Greg asked impatiently. The woman arched her brow, twirling a cable around her fingers. "Didn't the ice-man tell you he was going to find an informant for you? What did you expect, a guy in hoodie, meeting you in a shady bar? Not really classy enough for him, I think." She grinned maliciously. "Oh look at you, your whole face lights up when I mention him. No need to pretend, please, I could sell you the most wanted criminals in England, of course I know when the British Government starts sleeping with a cop from Scotland Yard."  
"Who are you and where do you get your information from?"  
"Haven't you deduced it yet, Inspector? I'm The Woman. Nice name, isn't it? Got the idea from Sherlock, he is ever so sweet when he is drugged..."  
Greg gasped in surprise. "But Irene Adler is dead! She was found, she-"  
"Don't look so betrayed, Mycroft Holmes only found out about it a couple of months ago."  
"And Sherlock?"  
Her gaze softened for a moment. "How do you think I survived?" She jumped of the machine and walked towards Greg, facing him. "I owe him. So I give his brother information every now and then. Now someone tried to kill him and it seems I can finally repay my debt. The men you're looking for are only small footmen of a much bigger organisation. Musgrave is nothing but a low-class criminal. You won't find him by looking for gold or jewellery being sold, his employers are far to clever for that. Tell Sherlock to look in Musgrave's old bedroom, he will find clues pointing him to his hideout."  
"But you know where they are ? Can't you just tell us were to find them and who their employers are?"  
Irene's eyes flashed with sudden fear and anger. "My involvement in this has to be as minimal as positive. Not a word to anyone. Make it look as if Sherlock Holmes found him by himself"  
"And the employers? Who are they?"  
"They are way too big for you and no man is worth risking my life for. All you need to know is, when Sherlock Holmes took Moriarty's network apart, he created a power vacuum in the criminal underground. All kinds of criminal scum, from the art forger to the serial killer, waiting to be the next Mr Sex. Jim Moriarty passed his legacy on to the only person he trusted. And that man has been biding his time for two years, putting together his own empire, piece by piece. You got a taste of what he is capable of when your friends got trapped and tortured in Sherrinford prison. If you go after him, he will make Sherrinford look like a nice holiday hotel." Her eyes were dark, gleaming with a mixture of fear and admiration. She turned around, slowly walking back into the darkness, the sound of her heels echoing through the halls. "Do give Sherly my love and all my best wishes for his new relationship." She said, looking back over her shoulder. "I've been telling him to make a move for ages."

It was dark by the time Inspector Lestrade came back into his office. Donovan reported that no new discoveries had been made and he confessed that he also failed to discover anything of importance. Back in his office, he leaned over his paperwork, texting Sherlock to meet him next morning for a trip to the Musgrave's manor.  
He was leaning back in his chair, groaning, as something caught his eye. A shimmer between the files on his desk. Greg reached for it and pulled out a small, silver box. He opened the lid, taking out a folded piece of paper. Written in an elegant, clean handwriting it said:

My love,  
Take this as a promise.  
My promise to love you, to protect you, to surprise you,  
to kiss you whenever and where ever you wish.  
Happy Valentine's Day,  
Myc

Under the letter was an elegant but simple silver ring, with a simple engraving on the inside:  
"my division."


	13. Chapter 13

It was a dull, rainy day, clouds covering the sky, their deep gray colour promising more rain. Lestrade got out of his car and approached the Musgrave Manor. Police tape surrounded the area but the policemen had long left the scene, leaving the place to look straight out of a horror movie, with the cracked façade and dark windows, wild plants climbing up the walls and covering the paths.  
Sherlock Holmes was leaning against the door, smoking. "What happened to the patches?" Greg asked. Sherlock tossed the cigarette into the mud. "Not strong enough. This place is not exactly pleasant." The Inspector nodded. "John feeling better?" He asked. The detective's eyes flashed with warmth for a moment. "Yes, he's not allowed to leave his bed yet but he'll be fine. Mrs. Hudson is taking care of him."  
They entered the hallway and climbed up a set of marble stairs leading to a large bedroom. Once upon time, the room might've been luxurious. Now it was as wrecked and chaotic as the rest of the house. Books and papers scattered on the floor, ink had been angrily spilled across the desk and the bed was only covered in a thin ragged blanket. Large, dust-covered paintings decorated the walls, ancestors of the Musgraves, Lestrade guessed. A photograph of Ms. Sophie lay on the floor, the glass splintered.  
Sherlock dashed around the room with his lens, eyes alive with determination. "What made you decide to check this room in particular?" He asked. "The police already searched the entire place, I hadn't expected anyone at the Scotland Yard to have enough imagination to check it again." "Your brother has contacts." Sherlock grinned "So she's in London. Good to know." Greg rolled his eyes. Of course he knew. "Anything ideas yet?" he asked impatiently. The place was creeping him out, all the dust and broken things and paintings staring at him.  
"Several." Sherlock said. "Whats her name?"  
"Whose name?" He sighed in annoyance. He hated it when Sherlock did that, acting like everyone knew what he knew just so he could show off.  
"Your new girlfriend." Sherlock looked up from his lens and eyed Greg suspiciously. "You started shaving regularly a while ago, as well as putting way too much product in your hair and wearing after-shave, so I assumed you were seeing someone. Not to forget you dress much better since you started seeing her, so you evidently think she is out of your league and seek to impress her. Now you show up here, wearing a rather expensive ring, brand new, clearly a Valentine's day gift. She must have a lot of money to afford it so I'm guessing she's not at Scotland Yard. Your lips are slightly sore and chapped, which means you've seen her a couple of days ago and there was quite a lot of kissing. You also don't expect to see her again all that soon since you didn't shave yesterday and you've been wearing those clothes for three days. So, since you know about me and John I was trying to start a conversation by asking you for her name."  
Greg crossed his arms uncomfortably. "We really have other things to worry about Sherlock, there's a man dead and a woman still abducted."  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Someone I know then." He arched his brow. "Please tell me you're not dating Irene Adler, that really isn't a good idea!"  
"What? No, I thought she was dead until yesterday! Keep your nose out of my romantic life and inside that case!"  
The detective shot him a confused look and continued his search of the room.

Half an hour passed in uncomfortable silence until he broke out of his thoughts, dashing out of the room. "Got it!"  
"Sherlock!? Wait!" Greg followed, jogging down the stairs to the car, where Sherlock was already seated, typing wildly on his phone.  
"Will you tell me what you found?" He asked impatiently, climbing into the car.  
"Kings Cross please" Sherlock told the driver and pressed a pair of eyeglasses in Gregs hand. He turned them around, trying to make sense. The frame was thin and golden, the lenses rather thick and round, one of them cracked.  
"Quite old-fashioned. Looks like something my grandmother would wear." Greg commented. Sherlock arched his brow.  
"Is that all? Really Detective Inspector, I would've thought you'd have learned more by now." He picked up the glasses and held them at eye level. "We are looking for a small woman with really bad eyesight, an unusually broad nose, small eyes, used to have quite the fortune but has lately been struggling with financial problems. These glasses have been repaired twice within the last month, probably at the same shop. Where would take these glasses? They are custom made to fit the woman's features, therefore she would take them to the same place for repairing that made them in the first place. I looked up all the stores that offer custom made glasses and sell this particular and honestly quite unfashionable model and the only store in London I found is next to Kings Cross Station."  
"How could you possibly know all that? And also, why is this woman important, she could just be a visitor or the glasses could belong to Ms Kratides."  
Sherlock sighed. "Its so obvious! The temple has been bend quite extremely in order to properly fit over her ears which you usually only do for children, suggesting that she is quite small. Frame front and pads are very far from another, so she has a broad, large nose, the lenses are very thick and strong, so she has a really bad eyesight, probably couldn't see anything without them, their size also proves that she has small eyes. These glasses are made from real gold, that and the fact that they are custom made tell us she was really rich. The screws and pads have both been replaced multiple times, sometime within the last four weeks but on two separate occasions as the pads are older than the screws. Now, if the Lady still owned a lot of money she would just replace the glasses for a newer and more fashionable model. Instead she replaced the broken parts, so she can't afford anything new.  
As to why she is important, I found the glasses under the bed, the lens is cracked, the shape of the crack suggest it broke from falling to the ground, not from a blow, so it wasn't lost in a struggle more like an escape. Some of the papers scattered around the room were written in a female handwriting that doesn't match with the note young Sophie gave to our unfortunate interpreter. She wrote down notes on the history of the manor as well as coded letters which I will take to Bakerstreet with me in hope of cracking the code. She was in league with these men somehow but probably of a very low rank, otherwise she would be able to afford new glasses. If we're lucky, she's still alive and not important enough to feel like she needs hiding. We'll just have to rely on The Woman's information, if this clue wasn't important she wouldn't have pointed us in this direction."  
Greg had listened to his companion with fascination and a bit of annoyance. He nodded, impressed as ever, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Impressive." He admitted. "Obvious." Sherlock grinned.

The store was a large, modern building with a shiny shop-window.  
"They won't let us near their customer records without a warrant." Greg whispered. Sherlock chuckled. "Just leave that to me" he said with a wink. An overly motivated employee greeted them, shoving a pair of glasses into their hands and complimenting their good looks. To Greg's surprise, Sherlock smiled happily. "Oh thank you, really, it is very nice of you!" He said in a cheerful voice. "I am so, so sorry but we're not here to buy!" He took out the glasses and held them up. "We found these on our morning walk. Am I right in assuming by this extraordinary quality it is one of yours?" He smiled, his eyes twinkling. The girl smiled flirtingly and took the glasses from him. "Yes it is, an old model but we still have means of repairing them. I could keep them here and tell the others to keep an eye out for the owner." Sherlock sighed theatrically. "Oh well, I am sure the man who owned these will be able to live without them or just buy new ones" The girl shook her head. "The woman who owns these is nearly blind without them and can hardly afford the repairs, let alone a new pair. I do hope she'll come over to pick them up." Sherlock nodded. "Ah yes, I suppose she will take a cab to this place soon."  
"That would hardly be necessary, her workplace isn't far away from here, she can just walk." The girl beamed proudly. "Ah yes, I suppose she has a very minor job, since she has such little money?" She shook her end. "Funny thing is, she dresses rather well, seems to have an office job." In an instant, Sherlock's eyes flashed with motivation and the overjoyed mask fell, to reveal the keen expression of a hunter. "Thanks!" He said curtly and dashed out of the door. "One thing to remember, Inspector, people are always more willing to give you information if they can proof you wrong!"

Lestrade followed Sherlock down the street, feeling like the owner of a particularly energetic bloodhound. "How do you know which way to go?" Water splashed were he stepped into the puddles and the icy wind blew into their faces. "Her eyes." Sherlock said. "She kept turning her head in this direction. Her eyes looked up to the left so she was clearly remembering something. What else would she remember but the direction the woman went." They hurried through the rain, shoulders pulled up against the storm. Sherlock led them into a tall office building, straightening his scarf and running his hands through his curls as they reached the dry foyer.  
"She's dressing for an office job but has financial trouble, since she's too old to be a trainee or intern we know she has a low position job, badly paid but requires good looks. No cleaning service then, they have uniforms. Could be a personal assistant but then she wouldn't travel by bus. Receptionist then. The company she's working for must therefore be important enough to need a receptionist, yet not popular or successful enough to pay her well. The only companies in this area that fulfil those requirements are design agencies, which means…" He scrolled through his phone while he was talking, quickly and energized, tapping the screen with impatience. "There we go. Tracy Wilhelm. They have her picture on the website." He held up his phone, showing Greg a middle-aged Asian woman that fit the description perfectly. "Let's see if she's at work!"

The office was a small and scarcely decorated one. An annoyed intern opened them, coffee in hand, looking tired. He put on a broad fake smile and let them in. Sherlock introduced them as marketing managers of a small financial institution and asked for the supervisor. The boy shuffled off to get his boss, sighing in annoyance. "Reception is closed." Greg observed. "She might've suspected something." The detective shook his head, searching through the papers behind the counter. "She was at work yesterday." He said. "These bills are already sorted out, envelopes prepared to send them. Besides, there's no reason for her to think she was a suspect. Couldn't have played a big part in the whole thing." "Then why did our contact think she was important?" Greg asked. He picked up a pamphlet, scanning the list of customers. "What would she have access to? Finances, customers, bank accounts. Money laundering?" A handsome young man in a cheap suit approached them, introducing himself as the owner of the small business. He had the pale skin of an office worker, his young face already lined with stress and exhaustion. Sherlock smiled broadly and introduced their fake business. The manager answered quickly, the smile never fading from his lips, though his eyes were tired and cold.  
Yes they did marketing campaigns, yes of course they were trustworthy, and indeed their customers were not well known but certainly better known since they employed his company.  
Sherlock thanked him, took a card and pulled Greg out of the office.  
"It's not about the receptionist, it's about the manager. Musgrave was blackmailing him."  
"How on earth do you know that?"  
He rolled his eyes. "It's obvious. His nails are bitten, his hands were shaking, ice cold and sweaty, he obviously hasn't slept well for days as I hope you saw by his eyes, he's exhausted. Cut himself while shaving, multiple times. Someone who needs to be clean shaved every day should have enough practise now to shred his skin, so he's nervous. What could make him this afraid? Probably whatever was in the papers that went missing yesterday."  
Greg stared at him, thoughtfully. "I suppose you found an irregularity in the papers on the counter or deduced it from the Manager's watch?"  
"No, there was a post-it on the desk" Sherlock grinned.

Greg reported the success of their investigations, gave orders to investigate the shipping company whose papers went missing from the agency and then took a cab home.  
After finding his fridge empty and his kitchen too chaotic to even try cooking, he dropped on the couch with a defeated sigh. Thoughtfully, he looked at the ring at his hand, sparkling in the dim light of his living room. He should've expected Sherlock asking about it. It was sheer luck that his deductions hadn't gone far enough to uncover the truth, though it was unlikely to last. As soon as John was back on his feet, following the Detective everywhere, Sherlock would do his best to impress his companion. Gregory wouldn't mind, he knew he loved Mycroft endlessly and he wasn't ashamed of it. Quite on the contrary, he wanted to shout out to the world how amazing and wonderful his boyfriend was, but he also respected and understood Mycroft's worries.

There was a knock on the door. Greg rolled his eyes in annoyance. Was this case not going to let him sleep until someone was locked behind bars? He forced himself up and trotted to the door, opening it slowly.  
Mycroft was standing on his doorstep, chinese take-out in one hand, his umbrella in the other.  
"I thought you might need something warm after being on your feet all day." He smiled shyly. Greg beamed at him, the exhaustion gone, his chest filling with warmth. He threw his arms around him, burying his head against his neck, the scent of expensive aftershave and the warmth of his body surrounding him. With a surprised chuckle, Mycroft clumsily tried to return the hug, umbrella and food in his hands.

After eating his chinese food at remarkable speed, Greg lay on his couch, head in Mycroft's lap, watching their favourite Doctor Who Christmas Special. He looked at his ring again, turning his hand around, watching the metal sparkle. "Thank you." he said softly "It's really beautiful. Who knew you actually have some romance in you?" He teased with a warm smile. "I must admit" Mycroft said "I spent quite a lot of time researching." He nodded seriously. "I watched 4 rom-com movies and an entire season of a musical teen drama show. It was ghastly." Greg laughed softly. "I really appreciate it! You know you didn't have to." Mycroft smiled softly, running his fingers over Greg's cheek, down his neck, over his chest… "I wanted to." He whispered. "Too many years I locked myself away and forbid myself to feel. Watched the people around me loose all their dignity in their romantic entanglements, become so attached and dependent." he smiled." I missed out on so much. We have a lot catch up on." Steady breathing answered him, Gregory lying absolutely still, head resting in his boyfriend's lap, fast asleep. Carefully, Mycroft pulled the blanket further over his lover's curled up body, whispering "good night.", an overwhelming wave of affection and warmth washing over him.


	14. Chapter 14

"Gregory" a soft whisper woke Lestrade the next morning. "Gregory, dear, it's time to wake up." Mycroft leaned over his boyfriend, still wearing only a white cotton shirt and boxers, gently touching his head in a careful attempt to wake him. Sometime after midnight he had managed to bring the exhausted Detective to his bed.  
Multiple texts from Sherlock had threatened to wake him, so Mycroft had silenced the phone and called his brother himself, pretending to be in his office, checking on the progress of the Musgrave case. Sherlock had summarized the results of his and Greg's trip. "Tracy Wilhelm was found with her head smashed in, still wearing her suit for work." He had informed Mycroft. "I'm going to take a look at her body now. Tried to phone Lestrade but he's probably busy with his new girlfriend. Oh and we need all the information we can get on the "Bit's And Pieces" shipping company, run by Mr Joffrey Bit. Looks like Ms Wilhelm had documents in her possession her boss was anxious to get back." Mycroft and promised to look into it and, after making some phone calls to his office, was now trying to wake his lover.  
Greg blinked sleepily, pulling the blanket over his face like a groggy teenager. With a playful grin, Mycroft climbed on top of him, legs on either side of Gregory's hips, peeling the blanket from his hands, sneaking a soft, warm kiss. With a sigh, Greg opened his eyes, smiling happily. He hugged his boyfriend, pulling him closer to his chest, enjoying the warmth of entangled bodies. His fingertips ran under Mycroft's shirt, feeling the warm skin, his free hand cupped his lover's face, tracing the elegant curve of his cheekbones. They kissed, soft and gently, a little sigh escaping Mycroft's lips as he traced Greg's mouth with his tongue, feeling his stomach tingle with little butterflies. Reluctantly, he pushed himself of the bed, getting to his feet, pulling the blanket away in the process. He held out a hand, helping the still sleepy Greg up, mischievously eyeing the half-undressed man, who noticed the attention and pulled Mycroft closer with a smirk. "I'm always pleased to see you, sweetheart" he whispered with a wink.

They had the leftovers from dinner for breakfast, sitting on the couch –since the kitchen table was covered with paperwork- and updating each other on the Musgrave case.  
"My brother seemed under the impression you were spending time with "your girlfriend" today?" Mycroft asked carefully. Greg shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah he saw the ring yesterday and assumed I had a woman who gave it to me. I didn't want to correct him. I'm really sorry, should've been more careful." "It's alright" Mycroft said "He will find out sooner or later anyway. I just hoped I'd have some more time to … prepare." Placing his hand over Mycroft's, Greg answered "Take all the time you need, love." He sighed and got up. "Well, anyway, I think I'd better drive to St. Bart's before Sherlock forgets about me." The Inspector put on his coat and watched his boyfriend collect his things and straighten his tie and suit with a very concentrated expression. Mycroft moved around the small flat like a cat in a strange environment, careful and suspicious, always alert as if he expected dangers lurking between the un-organized papers and old, dusty picture frames. Something was bothering him, though Greg wasn't sure if it was just the unfamiliar surroundings or something else. He walked up to him, placing his palm between his shoulder blades reassuringly and gently kissed his cheek. "You okay?" He said quietly. With his characteristically empty smile, Mycroft picked up his umbrella "yes, of course" and disappeared through the door.

A quite stressful car ride later, Greg found himself staring at the crushed skull of Ms Tracy Wilhelm. She was a small, bony thing, her arms were bruised and her fingertips torn, her silky black hair soaked with blood and brain mass. Molly Hooper carefully removed the white sheet from the corpse and pointed to a pile of neatly stacked fabric stained with blood and dirt. "She was found wearing her work clothes." She explained. "Time of death was about twelve hours ago. Cause of death, obviously, half her head is missing." She smiled nervously, playing with the white sheet in her hands. "Uh, yeah, the bruises are post mortem, probably from when her killers dumped her in an alley. The fingertips and nails however happened before her death. Sherlock says she was probably clawing at a door or something like that." Lestrade nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the body carefully, trying (and, as always, failing) to see her as Sherlock would. Grief washed over him, as it always did when he faced with yet another life lost too soon. With a thank you to Molly, he gently pulled the white sheet back over Tracy Wilhelm's head. Scribbling the new information on his notepad, he inspected the clothes and the contents of the purse that was found with the body. No phone or wallet, just cheap make-up, sticky notes and a gold coin with the letter "M" engraved on it. Without a word, Molly handed him the pictures of the alley Tracy had been found in and busied herself by sorting the victim's items in evidence bags.

Stepping away from the corpse, he turned to the forensic, eyeing her questioningly. "Are you okay?" he asked carefully "you seem a bit jumpy." Molly nodded a little too energetically. "Yeah I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?" She placed the bloodied clothes into a plastic bag and sorted them neatly into an evidence box. Taking a long, deep breath, she placed her hands on the table top, her head dropping. Greg took a step closer, carefully placing a hand on her back. "You heard the news then?" He said quietly. She smiled weakly. "It's not like I didn't know this." Turning around to face her friend, Molly leaned against the table, biting her lip. "It was obvious. To all of us. And I'm happy for them, I really am, John is… he's great, he's my friend. It's just … it's the first time I've seen him since…" She swallowed hard. "I understand." Greg said softly. "I mean, I don't know what exactly happened, only that Euros involved you in her little… Experiments." Molly nodded sadly. "He called me. That day. From Sherrinford. Sherlock called me and asked me to… tell him that I love him." Her voice cracked, her hands digging into the wood. She looked up, eyes sparkling with tears. "And I forced him to say it first and… it was terrible." She leaned into her friends shoulder, who padded her back slowly. "Did you talk about that?" She shook her head. "We haven't spoken since then. He came in here and he was… cold and distanced." Drawing a deep breath, the girl raised her head, straightened her shoulders and wiped her tears away. Determination set on her face, her hurt eyes burning with strength. Greg had always admired Molly Hooper for her courage and her strength. It must be exhausting to be in love with a man as cold and rough as Sherlock Holmes (oh look who's talking, he said to himself) and even more so if it was unrequited. And yet, the brave woman had always shown him kindness and compassion, had always been there to help. "You should talk." He said. "You know how Sherlock is, he can't handle emotions, he is probably feeling terrible about this affair. Give him a chance. He's a good guy." She laughed softly. "You're probably right. We should see him anyway, check if he's found anything." They made their way to the laboratory, where Sherlock was back behind the microscope, staring at the glass intensely. He raised his head when the two came in. "Ah Lestrade. Awake at last." There was a clanging of glass as he moved the containers of colourful fluids around. "Have nothing to share yet but I need you to go and do some legwork while I work." He smiled. Greg knew this smile well, the cold eyes that so very obviously stared at him to avoid looking at Molly Hooper. He wondered if that was a general Holmes thing. "Please do try to get a warrant for Mr Reginald Musgrave's private safe. I am very certain we shall find what we're looking for there."  
Clearing her throat, Molly stepped forward, pulling her shoulders back, looking ready to march into a battle. "Sherlock, we have to talk. Now. All of this" she gestured to the tubes and glasses "can wait until you've told me what's going on!" Hands on her hips, she placed herself so that the door was blocked from Sherlocks view. Greg backed out slowly, closing the door behind himself, praying that Sherlock, in all his intelligence, was smart enough not to piss off the same woman twice.

The closing of the door echoed through the room dramatically. Molly's eyes rested on Sherlock, her face was calm as always but her eyes burned with pain and love. He got up and faced her, taking a deep breath, trying to find the right words. He had wanted to talk to her but everytime he tried to explain, his head began to swim with words and his throat felt tight. Her eyes softening, Molly dropped her hands. "I am not mad at you, Sherlock, not for what happened. I know you didn't have a choice. But you could have called, talked to me, explained! If Greg hadn't called me I probably still wouldn't know what happened. Do I matter that little to you? Do you have any idea what that did to me?" Sherlock eyes widened in shock and pain. "I - I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry I didn't know what to do, what to say." He ran his long, thin hands through his curly hair. "You- you're my friend, I care about you, I do love you! And it killed me to hurt you like that, please believe me, Molly!"  
"I do." She smiled softly and pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace. "I missed you!" Sherlock rested his chin on his friend's head. "I … missed you too." He said hesitantly.  
"So, you and John, finally together?" Molly asked, pulling away and leaning against the counter with a grin. Blushing, Sherlock buried his hands in his pockets. "Don't tell me you made a bet too."  
"I should have. How did that happen? Big romantic scene?" she teased.  
"Actually I said a bit too much while he was pretending to be asleep. He tricked me, basically... And thank god he did." he smiled.  
"It suits you." Molly said. "The relationship-life. You look very happy."  
Sherlock smiled warmly and looked at his friend, his eyes full of affection. "I am. And … I know you … I'm sorry."  
"It's alright, really. I'll find someone else. Someone normal, non-psychopathic for a change." She grinned. "I think I deserve that. A normal and healthy relationship with a normal, quiet person."  
He nodded. "If anyone deserves that it's you, Molly Hooper."

The sun had risen high above the tall buildings, reflecting on polished glass, illuminating the vibrant city. Greg entered the bank building, proudly showing the warrant to the employee, asking to see Mr Musgrave's safe. He was lead down a narrow corridor with polished white walls and a dark wooden floor, into a hall filled with shiny shelves of thick metal. The bank employee walked down the aisles, until they reached the safe assigned to Musgrave. Typing in a code and sliding a key card over the display, they opened the safe. Within were papers, neatly stacked and sorted with paperclips. Lestrade took then out carefully, scanning the content, skipping through the pages. He froze. One word leaped up to him from one of the more recent documents. Moriarty.


	15. Chapter 15

"Jim Moriarty. Deceased. Body never found... Napoleon of crime…. Obsession with Sherlock Holmes. Known associate of Euros Holmes..." Sherlock read the highlighted keywords out loud, skipping through the documents. "Musgrave was collecting information… Some of these are just prints from online blogs and newspapers but these" He held up a handful of papers "Are taken directly from the Scotland Yard archives." The Detective spread them flat on the table in his kitchen. Reports of the Yard on the suicide killings, the bombings, his break-ins and various other crimes connected with Jim Moriarty. Lestrade frowned, crossing his arms. "How the hell did he get those? Took me weeks until they gave me access." Sherlock shook his head. "The question you need to ask is what does he want with them? Information about his crimes, theories on his web of criminals and his connections, I know all these, I've researched them myself but they're not important, they don't tell much. There's no reason to lock them away in a safe, he had financial struggles and these things are very expensive."  
Greg furrowed his brows. "He was concerned worried someone would find them, then! These are confidential reports after all." With a sarcastic laugh, his friend shook his head. "The Yard wouldn't notice if I ripped their notes from their hands." He hesitated. "No offense."  
He walked up and down, hands folded against his lips. "It wasn't about the Scotland Yard, there was someone else he didn't want to know, he was hiding them. Who would care? Who is dangerous enough that you can't simply hide it in your own house?"

The front door opened and John entered, Rosie on his arm. Sherlock snapped out of this thoughts and stepped into the living room. His face lit up, eyes warm and soft, as he picked up Rosie and greeted John with a quick kiss on the cheek. Greg watched, leaning against the doorframe, smiling warmly. Domestic life suited them well. Not that much had changed, they always looked at each other with undisguised affection, but it was little things, like John gently placing his hand on Sherlock's back they walked back into the room, that showed how much more comfortable they were. Rosamund laughed gleefully and duck her hand in her dad's black curls. "What did I miss?" John asked, taking of his coat. "We found Musgrave's personal safe. He was collecting information on James Moriarty." Lestrade answered. "Sherlock thinks he wanted to hide from someone. Someone smarter than the Scotland Yard." He handed his friend the papers, watching Sherlock from the corner of his eyes, feeling pride swell up in his chest. Who could have ever expected the cold, lonely man would one day be playing with his adopted daughter, kissing his boyfriend, living a somewhat normal life.

"Maybe he used to work for him. Moriarty." John suggested.  
Sherlock shook his head. "Why would he research a man he had once worked for? "  
"Okay, trying to build up his own empire then?"  
"By reading blog entries?"  
"Blimey, Sherlock, just tell us you're theory already, you drama queen! And stop showing our daughter corpses…" With a sigh, he pulled the newspaper, showing Tracy Wilhelms blood covered body on the front page, from his partner's hands. Sherlock's eyes lit up with amusement and excitement. "Not yet, dear John, not yet." John shook his head, smiling. "Need a big, dramatic reveal?" "Why, of course, an artist needs his stage!"  
"Oy!" Lestrade exclaimed with a grin. "You can flirt later. I'm tryin to find a killer if you two don't mind." "Hmm 'trying'." Sherlock commented.  
He was interrupted by a ringing at the door and Mrs Hudson shuffling up the stairs. She looked slightly annoyed. "It's him again." She said. "Really, don't you have an office?" She asked Greg judgingly and left the room with a last wink at Rosie. Mycroft entered, elegant and determined as always, a large briefcase in hand. Greg's heart fluttered and his chest tightened simultaneously, as he noticed he was staring right through him, his face a mask of ice.

"Ah, always a pleasure, brother mine." Sherlock said dramatically. He put Rosie down on the floor between her toys and moved back into the kitchen. Dropping the briefcase and opening it dramatically, Mycroft explained in a diplomatic voice. "As requested, I acquired information about Tracy Wilhelm and her boss. Turns out she was an informant, employed by one of our minions. The man she worked for, Mr. Keith Clyde, has been under suspicion of running a small drug cartel for a while. One of our agents discovered an illegal brothel, managed by Mr Clyde. We have not acted upon this information yet, in hope of finding him to be connected to a more important person." He spread some papers on the kitchen table. John picked one up, disgust clear on his face. "35 women are being kept as illegal prostitutes and you have done nothing to help them?" He shot Mycroft an angry look.  
"They are not held there against their will. Most of them are drug addicts and other lost souls. They aren't slaves."  
"You could help them!" John said harshly and Greg flinched, taking a step back from the scene. "Some of them are still children, Mycroft, do you even have the slightest bit of humanity in yourself?" He waved the documents around angrily, his face reddening with fury. Swiftly, Sherlock moved behind him, placing his hand on John's arm. "It's okay, John, we will take care of it." He said quietly, softly. "Right now we need information." With a sigh, John dropped the documents and leaned against Sherlock's chest.

Mycroft's eyes flickered between them and Greg for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he continued shifting through papers.  
"As you might have guessed, Reginald Musgrave employed Clyde, he is not connected to the brothel but we have evidence of his involvement with the trade of cocaine and heroin. 'Bit's and Pieces' is, as you have realized by now, not a real company but merely a cover-up. They used the shipping company and Clyde's own company to try and cover up the tracks of their business."  
Sherlock stared, thoughtfully. "Why would you take interest in drug dealers? It's hardly a high class of criminal, I would know at least 10 people in this street alone who could supply me." He said.  
Mycroft frowned. "It came to our attention because someone is funding them. Both Musgrave and Clyde get regular transfers on their bank accounts, the same sums at the same time, but from completely different accounts all across the globe."  
"Still nothing that marks them as mediocre criminal, you usually hand these to me. What is it, Mycroft?"  
He took a deep breath, straightening his back. "Euros Holmes."  
Sherlock flinched.

"Keith Clyde's correspondence was monitored after we discovered the brothel. Those two words are keywords that I will be informed about immediately. He got a text from a burner phone a few months ago containing just that. Her name."  
The Detective furrowed his brows, subconsciously coming closer to John in a protective move. "We had suspected she had an accomplice." His head jerked up. "But Musgrave? He's nothing but a dirty pawn, she wouldn't have needed him! That leaves whoever sent the message."  
"Moriarty?" John suggested. "He shows up and employs the two guys as footmen, so one of them does some research?"  
"Moriarty is dead, John." He said calmly and looked over to Greg, who had been standing in the back, watching silently.  
"So we are looking for someone else with connections and knowledge like Moriarty's, only alive?" The Inspector suggested, his eyes flicking to Mycroft, who stared determinately at his suitcase. "The Woman did warn you of someone who is too dangerous for her to betray.

Someone Moriarty passed his legacy on" Sherlock said darkly. John's eyes sparked with jealousy for a moment. "The Woman? You've talked to her?" He crossed his arms, looking confused. Greg sighed. "I talked to her." "And I thought her involvement was to be kept secret!" Mycroft said coldly, making Greg's chest tighten. "Mycroft, it's not his fault!" His brother stepped forward, subconsciously shielding his friend. "You should have expected me to find out, I've been in contact with her, I know she's back in England." "And yet nobody's told me." John murmured. Silence fell, the men staring into the distance, thinking. Sherlock leaned against the kitchen counter, hands folded to his lips, John drummed his fingers on the table, Mycroft stared darkly at the paper reporting the two code words. Greg stared at Mycroft, carefully, wondering, his heart aching. He envied Sherlock and John, standing so close to each other, their shoulder touching casually. "There is no record of anyone with a legacy like that." Mycroft said quietly. "We have been watching and spying and intercepting but there isn't any trace. Sherlock spent two years picking through the network-"  
"Then you have missed someone." John said curtly.

Rosamund started crying, an attention-seeking, tearless wail that made Mycroft frown in disgust. His face softening, John dashed to his daughter, rocking her in his arms, talking soothingly. Sherlock watched him, thoughtfully, his eyes warm and caring. "Someone he trusted. Who would he have trusted? A man who didn't care about anything, who was willing to die, just for the sake of chaos and destruction. The psychopathic genius, alone in a world full of ordinary, boring people. Goldfish." He said looking at his brother, whose eyes stared forcefully ahead. "Who would he have trusted with his life's work?" He closed his eyes, hands against his lips, standing perfectly still. Carefully, Greg glanced over to Mycroft, standing frozen in a pose of authority, his face hard and cold. Even Rosie seemed to feel the tension, she was quiet now, looking at her adoptive father, chewing her plush bee.

With the elegance of a dancer, precise and quick, Sherlock suddenly whipped around, spreading the papers, scanning them, picking selected single sheets and holding them up. "Stupid, stupid me!" He shouted. His daughter squeaked. "Moriarty had a partner!" The Detective slammed the documents on the table. "Not just an accomplice but an actual partner, a boyfriend or husband." "But he's a psychopath" John said "why would he care about dating?" "He wasn't completely stripped of emotion, John. That day, on the roof of St. Bart's, I saw it. I looked into his eyes, he was- he was lonely and confused. Emotions didn't work for him like they do for you ordinary people but that doesn't mean he didn't have any. There must be someone-"He held up the papers. "Moran. I was blind, I was so focussed on Moriarty's name, I didn't notice, the name keeps coming up. It's just a side note, an unimportant background character. But if Jim Moriarty passed his valuable legacy, his empire of crime, on to some else, it would be the only person he actually cared about."

"And what makes you think it's that guy, this Moran?" John asked.  
"Because" Sherlock handed him two documents. "His name shows up in Mycroft's files about Ms Wilhelm and in the blog post about Moriarty's trial after the break-ins." Mycroft moved forward, walking past Greg, who tensed, and took a look. "He was just a dealer, a homeless drug addict living on the streets of London. He was the one who brought the brothel to Tracy Wilhelm's attention. That is all we know of him, we can't keep track of every lost soul on the streets." He smiled grimly. "I could take a look in our archives and see what I can find."  
His brother stared for a moment, then he whipped around, grabbing his coat, scarf and phone. "I'll be back in an hour, this is a job for my faithful network, the most reliable agents you will find in this country." He threw his brother a look of superiority. "We'll see who has the best insight by this evening, brother mine." John had put on his jacket simultaneously and strapped his daughter to his chest. The man's eyes were alive with the excitement of the hunt as he followed his partner out the door. "You try to find Musgrave, Lestrade, I need to question him!" The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Gregory and Mycroft standing in the living room in silence, surrounded by papers and children's toys.

Greg walked through the room until he faced his partner. His chest was tight and his stomach felt strange and tingly. The last time he had been so emotionally confused, he had been a teenager. "Are you okay?" He asked quietly.  
The pale blue eyes softened a bit as the men's hands touched tentatively. For a moment, the tension fell. "I don't know." Mycroft said, running his hand through his hair in exasperation. "I have no idea what's going on, I- sorry." Pain blazed up in his eyes, he was shaking his head, stepping back. Gregory tried to reach out for him but he avoided the touch in a swift movement, like a sceptic animal. "You have a criminal to catch and I have work to do." Mycroft said curtly, his features settling back into a mask of cold stone. His movements were hurried and tense, as he gathered his documents, sorting them into the suitcase, not looking at his boyfriend. The Inspector watched, a pained expression on his face, sadness and worry washing over him. "Maybe we should-" "Gregory, please…" There was a pleading, pained sound to his voice that made Greg flinch. He nodded. "Okay." Grabbing his coat, the Inspector left Bakerstreet without another word, feeling strangely empty.


	16. Chapter 16

The tap-tap of thin heels echoed through the deserted hallway. Noiselessly, the heavy door opened and the woman entered a gray, dull office, scarcely decorated, the light falling in a chessboard pattern on over the room.  
"This is a high security building with the best security system in Britain. How did you get in?" Mycroft Holmes asked irritably, looking up from his laptop, closing it with a snap. "You should stop hiring straight men as guards, they are so easily distracted." Irene Adler posed in front of the mirror to her right, eyeing herself with extreme satisfaction. "What's the point of consulting me if you aren't going to listen to any advice?" She asked reproachfully, picking up the glass globe, turning it her elegant, thin hands. "I need this man, right where he is now. It's not just your own life you're playing with, Mr Holmes." Her pale green eyes flashed sternly from under long, black eyelashes. Even as a hunted criminal she still dressed to impress. Mycroft scanned her elegant, revealing dress and stockings, as ever equally impressed and annoyed by her indestructible female strength.

"If Sebastian Moran is responsible for my Sister's little experiments he will pay for it." He said darkly. "Look at that, the Ice Man is still there. Funny, I had expected you're little romance with the cop would have melted your heart by now. He is such a sweetheart." Irene sang in a dangerously sweet voice, batting her eyelashes.  
"What do you want, Miss Adler?" "Forget about Moran. Get Musgrave, get Clyde, blow up their little playrooms and stay out of this. Your sister is locked away for good, this is over!" Her cold face, her straight, strong posture, her blazing eyes, voice harsh and demanding, everything about her was intimidating and powerful. She dropped the globe back on the table, her long nails scratching the glass. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft stood up, walking around the table to face the woman, his face set in cold determination. "It only takes me one code word and the alarm will go off, sending a fully armed task force to this room. You should leave."  
Her eyes blazing with fury, Irene Adler slapped her hand over Mycroft's face, her ring leaving an angry red mark on the pale skin. "I will stop you." She hissed and before he could recover from the unexpected blow, she had slammed the door shut and the sound of her heels faded away.

The unexpected discovery of a possible Moriarty-replacement in England's criminal web had successfully thrown Sherlock of his track, keeping him locked up in Bakerstreet for five days now. Without the consulting Detective by his side, Greg found it hard to progress in their investigation. They had interrogated every person he had ever had contact with. They had taken in Keith Clyde for questioning but he didn't say a word and without the cooperation of Mycroft's minions they had no evidence against him. Mycroft. They hadn't spoken a word since that day in Sherlock's flat. Afraid to intrude, to take a wrong step, he hadn't dared to call or text him,had waited for him to show up but with every passing day he felt more lost. There was a black hole in Gregory's chest, draining his energy, leaving him cold and lost, stumbling threw his work as if he was watching himself from the outside. His head was buzzing.  
It had been quite a long time since Greg had seen him so distanced and pained. He was worried about him but he also couldn't shake of that feeling of betrayal. Why didn't talk to him, trust him, open up and let him help? Would that be it, for the rest of their relationship, an up and down of gleeful cuddling one day and cold-hearted stares the other?

Exasperated, he dropped placed his forehead against the cold surface of his desk. It was littered with any files on Musgrave the Scotland Yard could supply him with. They had checked the houses of acquaintances, old homes, alleys, warehouses, hotels, the man was nowhere to be found. Maybe the Woman had lied to them, had sent them on the track of the unimportant footman so that the real villain could escape. Was there even any reason to trust her?  
Greg checked his phone. Sherlock still hadn't reported from his faithful foot soldiers in the homeless network and it was getting late again. He turned his ring between his fingers. It all reminded him terribly of his marriage, the distance and the quiet, secrets and lies. Well, of course Mycroft hadn't actually lied to him nor had their relationship been official more for more than a few days, but a burnt child dreads the fire and a divorce was hardly a joyful experience.

With an impatient grunt, Greg got up and put on his coat. There was hardly any point in staying around if he never got anything right. Defeated, the Inspector dragged himself to a cab. He was just about to enter when he got a text.  
"Bakerstreet meeting. Now. –SH" He felt dizzy. Mycroft wouldn't join them again, would he? Climbing into the car he heard himself say "221B Bakerstreet".

To his disappointment and his relief, Mycroft had decided not to come and simply mailed his findings. Just as Sherlock had expected, there weren't many.  
"Colonel Sebastian Moran. He's a military man, served for a couple of years, an extraordinary sniper, until he was obliged to retire. Spent some years in quiet retirement until the money ran out and he went to streets. That is hardly helpful." He snapped his laptop shut and got up, proudly marching down the room. "My reliable sources on the streets could, however, supply me with a more insightful report than my brother's blind minions." He posed dramatically. "A few months ago a rugged man named Sebastian started showing up on the streets. He kept quiet, never got involved with anyone for a while until Clyde supposedly picked him up to sell find him customers and to make sure the brothel ran smoothly. The "playhouse" as my dear brother called it is also well known as a good source of income for the very desperate though my own direct contacts have higher standards than that if I might say so."

He cleared his throat. "We now know that the man who we believe to be Moriarty's partner in crime mysteriously started posing as a homeless man who then pretended to be a low footman employed by the man he directed in a web of crime. Why do we know it for sure? People who know people who work for Clyde's house of lost souls. I questioned one of the women, a lovely lady by the name of Saphire who has been employed for almost five years, and she confessed that the drug dealer seemed familiar. She felt as if she had seen him years ago, arriving with another scary looking man in Clyde's private office. The woman very clearly remembers her boss being frightened and nervous for the rest of the week after that. Another sweet girl calling herself Chanel could also account for Moran shouting at Clyde for almost getting caught by the Yard about a year ago."

The detective smiled proudly. John cleared his throat. "Also, we blackmailed Clyde to make sure the women worked in better conditions, we made sure we have proof to bring his business down. Sherlock's contacts will check on that regularly and report should there be any trouble." Sherlock gave him a warm, affectionate look. Greg nodded thoughtfully. "That's good news." He said curtly. With a bit of a confused expression, the Detective continued. "So, we know Clyde is unimportant for us right now, Musgrave is his accomplice and still hiding somewhere in London, Sebastian Moran could be taking over Moriarty's position. He would have noticed our interest in him by now so we won't be seeing him on the streets again. We need Musgrave to get to him. I suspect the Yard has been unsuccessful in their search?" The Inspector shrugged half-heartedly, shaking his head. Sherlock gave him an irritated look and continued his dramatic monologue. "The first people who appeared in this mystery are of course the Kratides Siblings. They have not been seen since the incident at the manor and chances are that their bodies are just well hidden. After they achieved their goal of getting to the treasure both of them would have been useless. Since it was clear to them from the very beginning they would have planned it very cleanly, I doubt you will be finding anything before their bodies are already half rotten. Your client, the interpreter, was a more unexpected complication so they took him out in a rush and thus the body was discovered too soon. The receptionist was killed very brutally, a crime of passion, anger. The only precaution they took with her was dumping her in an alley far away from the crime scene. They wanted her to be found. Why? To send a message? To warn us? Warn their other contacts? And why the messy footman crimes if-" "Sherlock." John said quietly, lightly touching his arm. Blinking in confusion, Sherlock snapped out of his deductions and stared. With a nod of his head, John gestured towards Greg, who was staring into nowhere, not quite focussed on the crime-solving. The two exchanged a concerned look.

"Do you need some rest?" Sherlock asked cautiously, gesturing towards the couch. Greg dropped into it, leaning his head against the wall behind him. His friends moved around him, sitting down like a pair of concerned parents. There was confusion in Sherlock's eyes and deep understanding in John's. "It's okay, really, I -ehr- probably just need some rest, it's fine." Sherlock glanced at his friend, then to John and jumped to his feet. "I'll make tea!" He rushed of to the kitchen. Greg smiled weakly. Speaking in a low, quiet voice John asked "Mycroft?". He nodded slowly. "Did you talk to him? After you saw each other here, with Sherlock running around?" He shook his head.  
"Why is he so worried? I had thought after Sherlock and I… I'd expected you to just announce it."  
Greg took a deep breath. "I don't think it's about being gay or not. I don't know. He is scared of something. Doesn't want his brother to know. Their parents know and they were fine with it and he wasn't all that bothered. I just don't know..." He dropped his head into his hands. Sherlock returned, placing three cups on the table, sitting down on the couch next to his friend. "I suspect this social situation requires me to ask you what is wrong and you to tell me your problems so that we form a strong bond of friendship over the experience." he said seriously. With a smile, Greg nodded. "You really don't have to." Straightening his back, Sherlock said with determination "It is my duty as your friend!...Greg." "I can't tell you much." His voice was beginning to regain energy, warmed by his friends' care (and the tea). "It's not my secret to tell." "Ah a secret! It is connected with the secret girlfriend who you haven't seen for a while and who-" "Sherlock, love, you are not supposed to deduce his problems. It is not a case." John said softly.  
"Apologies." Greg took a deep breath, running his fingers through his hair. He felt unexpectedly nervous, his fingertips started shaking. Something burned inside him, the need to talk to someone, openly, to confess all his conflicting feelings, anything to stop this terrible loneliness. But it wasn't secret alone. He couldn't out Mycroft for him. There had to be something he could say. Biting his lip, digging his fingernails into the soft sofa, he breathed out, swallowing his fear. "I don't have girlfriend, Sherlock." His heart threw itself against his ribs. Why was this so hard? There was no logic behind his anxiety, no reason to be this nervous. His chest tightened painfully. "I have a boyfriend."  
There was a moment of agonizing silence. "A boyfriend, there's always something." Sherlock smiled, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder. Greg's chest expanded, his heart beat a bit lighter and a part of the weight lifted from his shoulders. "I know what it feels like." John said. "I dated women all my life. I was confused and scared, when I realized I had fallen for a man. Maybe I am gay, maybe I'm bisexual, it doesn't matter in the end." "I am gay!" Sherlock announced. John gave him a puzzled look. "Good for you, Sherlock." Greg laughed hoarsely. "I made him laugh John, I win." "Sherlock, it's not-"

A high-pitched wailing split the air. "Oh fuck she's awake already. Be right back, I'm sorry." John sighed and dashed to little Rosie's room, leaving Sherlock awkwardly sitting beside Greg. They waited in silence, the muffled voice of John calming his daughter sounding from the other room. With a more serious, warm voice he said quietly "I'm there for you, you know." With a sigh of relief, Greg leaned on Sherlock's shoulder, giving up all pretence. Hesitantly, Sherlock reached out and put his arms around his friend. He relaxed. Maybe sometimes you don't have to talk. Maybe sometimes it was enough to know that you were not alone. The hole in chest was still there but it was easier to ignore, as if the embrace of his friend silenced it. Greg closed his eyes, burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder, allowing himself to relax.

It was almost midnight. The humming of the car's engine was the only sound that filled the frosty air. Memories flew through Greg's mind, warm and soft and now so very painful.

"Gregory...I'm afraid. I do not want to lose you."

He didn't want to lose him either. But he felt so helpless.

Mycroft's hand flat against his bare chest, tender and curious and warm.  
"You are so beautiful."

His heart ached to be back there, in the dimly lit dressing room, seeing Mycroft so open and vulnerable for the first time.

The warmth of naked skin and soft breath.  
"I love you"

Where had he gone wrong? What could he have done to upset him or scare him away? Had he hurt him? How could he possibly have messed this up?

The excitement and joy and absolute, unconditional love.  
"Okay. I will be your Boyfriend, Gregory Lestrade."

It stabbed through him like a knife, a flaming, icy, piercing agony that surged through his body.

He opened the door to his flat, walking straight to his bedroom, eager to leave the day behind him, longing for the oblivion of sleep. Just when he had started to undress, there was a knock on the door and his heart skipped a beat. Every step towards his door felt agonizingly slow and far too quick at the same time. Every inch of his body quivered, as he touched the doorknob, hands shaking. Somewhere in the back of his head, a small voice scolded him for acting like a teenager.  
He opened the door.  
Mycroft's eyes were tired, red-rimmed, dark shadows falling over his face. He wore a suit as always but Greg didn't have to be a super-observant genius to see he had been wearing it for a while, all wrinkled and stained, his cuff a bit torn.  
"May I come in?"


	17. Chapter 17

The world turned upside down. Greg's chest imploded painfully, adrenaline pumped through his veins and his head started spinning. Somehow, he managed to make his voice sound steady enough as he answered a curt "Sure". A shiver ran down his spine as Mycroft passed him, as if the air between them was pure electricity. He dropped his umbrella and coat carelessly and stood in the small living room, all hunched and nervous, a shadow of the proud and icy man with the suitcase full of government secrets. "You didn't take it off." He said hoarsely, glancing at Greg's hand, where the elegant ring shimmered, well-polished and cleaned. Trying very hard not to look into the other man's eyes, Greg shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. It took a lot of effort to keep his body from shaking as he was falling apart inside. Mycroft. He looked so broken. It was physically painful to see him like that, Greg's entire body seemed to long to touch him, hug him, comfort him. Agony.

"Are you okay? Can I do something for you?" Greg whispered, his voice shaking a bit. Mycroft stared at him, his eyes wide with surprise. "I… I missed you…"  
"Is that why you've been ignoring me for a week?" The remark came out harsher than intended and Mycroft flinched. They stared at each other, both filled with a storm of emotion, the air vibrating with tension. He could barely look into the other's eyes, desperately searching for the right words. "It had nothing to with you." Mycroft said. "It was not- I can't explain. It wasn't personal." He was staring at the ground, abashed and lost. Greg's insides where suddenly aflame with emotions, his head swimming, rage storming through his stomach. "This is not how it works, Mycroft, you can't always run away from your problems or lock them up on an island! Just for once, be a grown-up and face them!" He gasped, shocked by his own voice. He hadn't meant to shout. The rage inside him evaporated as he saw his love's eyes darken with shock, his hands falling to his sides in defeat. Any icy wave of regret spread over his body. "I'm sorry I didn't mean-" "No." Mycroft said, his voice a bit firmer, finally looking directly into Greg's eyes. "Don't apologize. You have a right to be angry. I hurt your feelings. I am sorry, I really am." He tried hard to keep his voice calm and steady. "Tell me why. At least let me try to help you. Please. Myc." Greg begged, moving towards him a bit, as if he was approaching a dangerous creature. He looked into his eyes and, once again, saw the barricades fall, tumbling down in a waterfall of emotions, as the first tear gently rolled down Mycroft cheek.

"I panicked. When you told me Sherlock had found out you were seeing someone. I didn't mean to hurt you, I just… I can't do this, I don't know how." He said hoarsely. "I don't understand. What are you so afraid of?" Greg asked desperately.  
Drying his face and taking a deep breath to regain his posture, Mycroft answered "It's… difficult to explain. I was always the clever one. No sentiment, no silly romantic entanglements. I knew who I was and I thought it was a wise choice. I was so proud." His voice quivered slightly. "A man begged me to shoot him to save his wife and I couldn't do it. I saw that man shoot himself right before my eyes and I felt sick and I grieved. I watched my little sister torture my little brother and I was terrified. And I looked into the eyes of a man who saw a better man in me than I was and I fell in love. Everything I thought I was… I don't know who I am anymore." Mycroft winced as he saw the hurt expression on Greg's face. "Gregory please don't, I didn't mean it like that. You made me so happy" He made a gesture to reach for his hand but then thought better of it. "Being the cold, clever man made me feel safe. And now I was standing before my little brother, the little, silly boy I always wanted to protect, and I was vulnerable and he was so strong and confident. Suddenly, he was the clever one and I felt so weak and pathetic. Does that make any sense?" Greg looked at him, thinking. He shrugged. "It was my first instinct to hide behind a mask of ice." Mycroft continued cautiously. "It's what I have been doing all my life. I am so sorry, please believe me, I never wanted to hurt you."  
"Why now? You've had days to explain yourself."  
"Because you're right. I run away from my problems. Or I lock them up. I realized I had hurt you and I ran away. I don't want to lose you, please forgive me." Mycroft's voice cracked and tears ran down his cheeks. He gasped and fell to his knees. Greg dashed forward, catching him in his arms. "It's okay, I got you." His chest imploded and his anger collapsed. He wrapped his arms around his love, kissing his forehead. "Of course I forgive you, silly. Always."

Catching his breath, Mycroft looked up into the other man's eyes. "I don't want to be scared anymore." His voice was steadier now and the storm in his eyes settled, comforted by the warm embrace. Exhaustion swept over him and he leaned against his boyfriend's shoulder, closing his eyes. "C'mon, get on the couch, I'll make some tea and then we talk." Greg suggested, getting back to his feet. He was shaking slightly, not sure what exactly was happening anymore. While his partner curled up on his couch, he made some tea and dug out some chocolate from the depth of his kitchen cupboard. He placed everything on the small coffee table, picked up a neatly folded blanket and carefully placed it over Mycroft's shoulders.  
"What is this for?" He asked a bit perplexed. "For the shock." Greg smiled.  
Still shaking slightly, he sat down on the other side of the couch, pulling his knees up. Mycroft moved a bit closer, stretching his arm and placing the blanket over Greg's shoulders, so that they were both huddled under it.

"You will have to face it eventually." Greg said quietly. "We can't hide forever. I can't. I almost told Sherlock today. Not everything, just that I have boyfriend." He waited a moment, anxious for his partner's reaction. He remained quiet, nodding slowly, his hands clawing the blanket nervously. "I was chasing after pretty girls all my life, married to a woman for a couple of years, all of the sudden you show up and turn my life upside down." Mycroft stared at the ground, biting his lip, inhaling sharply. "My point is," Greg continued, "you can never be one-hundred percent sure of everything. Sometimes you learn things about yourself that you didn't know where possible. Sometimes everything changes and it's scary but it's okay. Change is always terrifying. It's human nature, I suppose, to try and fight it." "When did you get so wise?" "I watched a lot of Doctor Who during the last days, it made me a bit cheesy." Mycroft laughed softly. It warmed Greg's heart.  
"I should talk to my brother, shouldn't I?" "He's going to find out anyway. I think he would appreciate if he find out from you. I can come with you if you want." Mycroft shook his head slowly. "I think it is time Sherlock and I had a conversation that is long overdue."

For a while the two men sat in silence, wrapped in their blanket, thinking. It was getting late and Greg started feeling very sleepy. The storm of emotions had settled, he had his love back by his side and all he wanted now was a good night's sleep. Slowly, he pushed the blanket off his shoulders and got to his feet. "I really need some rest." He whispered. "And it looks like you need some too." He stretched out his hand. Hesitantly, Mycroft took it and got up. "So, are we… are we okay?" Greg cupped his face with hands, kissing him softly. "Of course." He pressed his forehead against Mycroft's, looking into the ice blue eyes, now open and warm again. "Just promise you'll try and talk to me the next time." "I'll do anything to make sure you stay with me." Mycroft said. "Like you're ever going to get rid of me, silly." Greg answered.

The coffee tasted absolutely horrible. Greg pulled a face and pushed his cup far away from himself. "I told you we should stop by a Starbucks." Mycroft grinned. "You really need a new machine around here… among other things." He eyed the office suspiciously, poking the printer as if he expected it to start eating people. "Well, technically you're responsible for how much budget the Yard gets, soo…"  
"I can't abuse my position for minor things like that." He said airily.  
The door opened with a bang and Donovan stormed in, dropping a pile of heavy cardboard boxes on the floor with a loud thud. She was panting, kicking the box-tower with a dissatisfied grunt. Greg offered her his cup of coffee but she was smart enough to decline. It took Sally a couple of seconds to catch her breath before she reported "That's everything I could find. Freak better be right about his deductions and I sure as hell won't be bringing that back." Casting her a judgemental look, Mycroft stepped forward and scanned the boxes. "Thank you, that would be it Sergeant." He said with a dismissive gesture. The officer put her hands on her hips, arching her brow. "Who's that one?" She scowled at the stranger. "That one" he said in a dangerously sweet voice "is the freaks' brother and he can destroy your career with a single phone call." Donovan grunted, crossing her arms. Biting back another remark, she just cast Greg an angry look and slammed the door behind her. "Glad to see you're only using your position for really important business sweetheart." The DI grinned.

Two hours later, both where surrounded by cardboard boxes and piles of paper. Greg had taken a new notebook, which was now half full with notes, and Mycroft had been typing energetically on his laptop. He jumped up now and began pacing the room, massaging his temples. "The man is as good as a ghost. There's nothing on him for years. If he was so good at concealing himself for all this time, hiding in the shadows, why show his face now? Why go undercover with the street rats and organize all this messy business with Musgrave and the cellar?"  
"Maybe he just slipped up?"  
"Moran's a long-term criminal mastermind, he doesn't just 'slip up' like that. Something changed, something made him messy."  
"Wasn't he just following Moriarty's plan before? I mean, your sister probably did the planning and he just followed her lead. Now that she's locked up again he is all on his own."  
"Obviously that possibility occurred to me but it doesn't explain why he made his next move so quick or why it was so very flawed. Moran is a very skilled sniper he could have assassinated Sherlock as soon as he left Bakerstreet."  
Mycroft stopped pacing and closed his eyes, fingers drumming against his forehead nervously. "Something is wrong about this."  
Greg got up from behind his desk and carefully took Mycroft's hands within his own. "Thanks for helping with this Myc." He kissed his knuckles. "You should take a break. We can ask Sherlock what he has come up with so far. He's far more used to this than you are and you has a rough week."  
Mycroft sighed. "So did you." He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Greg's. Automatically, his boyfriend wrapped his arms around him, fingers running through the short, thin hair. The door slammed open. Sally Donovan stared at the two of them in shock, dropping the letter she was holding. "Will you ever learn to knock?!" Greg shouted. Her grimace of surprise turned into an annoyed frown. "I want a holiday." She sighed coldly and left with another bang of the door.

"Awkwaaaard." Mycroft sang, laughing. He picked up the envelope and handed it to Greg, frowning as he recognized the handwriting on it. "It's her. Be careful." The DI opened it slowly, retrieving a note and photograph. "I warned you. This is your fault. Back off." He read. The picture showed the body of the deceased man, lying on the polished marble floor of an elegant building, blood pooling from multiple stab wounds in his abdomen. "The murders are getting more brutal." He observed darkly. Mycroft took the picture, turning it around in his hands, his eyes clouding with worry. "The body was positioned there, too." Greg furrowed his brows thoughtfully. "So they are sending a message?" His partner bit his lip, nodding. "I'm afraid so. And it's not good news." He held up the photo pointing at the background. "It's the restaurant I took you to." He said softly.

Greg's heart skipped a beat. He swallowed hard. "Any chance it's just a coincidence?"  
"The universe is rarely so lazy."  
"What do we do then?"  
Mycroft's face hardened determinately. "Fight back.

Once again, the team found themselves in 221B Bakerstreet. The coffee was just better. Sherlock scanned the photograph carefully with his magnifying lens, his eyes burning with energy. "The place is a restaurant I have visited a couple of times." His brother said. "It's not a coincidence the body was placed there." John cast a questioning glance to Greg, connecting the dots. "I suppose the Yard has the found the body there?" He asked. The Inspector shook his head. "We send a squad over to scan the place, it was clean and empty. The owner reported a break-in yesterday without anything taken. Forensics found some blood residue on the floor but that's it."  
"A very specific message then." The consulting Detective said. "Broke into a restaurant for a little photoshoot and left no trace."  
His partner crossed his arms, forehead wrinkling in confusion. "Why did Irene Adler have the photo and why did she send it to the Yard? If she works for Moran, the information she gave Greg is unreliable."  
Mycroft shook his head thoughtfully. "People like Ms Adler don't have a 'side' Doctor Watson, she will help whoever has the best reward to offer." John arched his brow but remained quiet.  
A high-pitched squealing from the other side of the room reminded them that Rosamund was still present, building towers with little plastic cups to then crash them down with excited screams. "Is she in danger?" He asked. "If they get personal now, dumping bodies everywhere, then they know who we are and where to find us." He looked at Mycroft, his eyes burning. "Is my daughter safe?" Sherlock moved towards John, placing his hand on his shoulder affectionately, while subconsciously shielding his brother from him. "Rosie will be fine." He said quietly. "We'll keep her safe, I promise."

Greg looked over to Mycroft. He was staring at his brother, thoughtfully, his hands clenched by his sides. They had arrived together –Sherlock had been too busy with the case to notice anyway- and had now been standing a few feet apart. It was distanced, but he was glad they were no longer coldly ignoring each other. However, he couldn't help but feel a stab of jealousy, seeing his friends being so close and gentle without any second thoughts.

Sherlock turned to his brother. "Would you mind if I stayed at your place?" Mycroft stared at him in shock. "My- Why on earth? You have a perfectly intact flat." His brother rolled his eyes in annoyance. "I need quiet so I can go through all of this in my mindpalace. You're never home anyway." He crossed his arms and his brother stared at him, pouting. Greg and John exchanged a puzzled look. Sometimes the two of them were still 3 year olds fighting over their favourite toy.  
"Fine." Mycroft gave in. "Good!" Sherlock answered gleefully. He hesitated, looking at John, then at Rosie. His expression changed, becoming soft and worried. Eyes dark with a quiet plea, he added "And… call highest security on this flat. Keep them safe. Please." Mycroft nodded, his face softening. "They will be safe."


	18. Chapter 18

"Good" Sherlock said. The fire of the chase lit again in his eyes as he snapped back into the investigation. "The Woman. She pointed us to Tracey Wilhelm, risked her life by giving us the clue. Specifically that woman, not her employer, not the company, her. Why? What did I miss, what is so special about that woman?" Sherlock asked, pacing through the room. "No social contacts, never left the house, kept to herself at work, sees her family on Christmas and birthdays, played the informant for Mycroft. Do we know what exactly her position was? What sort of information could she give you?" His brother shrugged. "Places her boss went, papers from the Bit's and Pieces company, transfers, customers, that sort of thing."  
Hands clenched into the pockets of his suit, Sherlock turned around on the spot, staring into the distance, his mind racing. "None of the papers we have here are of any interest, there is no reason to kill her over- Arrgh YES stupid me!" The Detective shouted. "Papers! There were papers missing, when we visited the office! They weren't on her when the body was found and if she had been serving as informant for a while she would be smart enough to hide them somewhere! Oh we've been following the wrong trail!" He dug his thin hands in his hair, tugging at it in frustration. "We need to see her flat! They might still be there, if we are very very lucky!"

John gave Rosie to Mrs Hudson, Greg called for a policeman to bring the keys and Mycroft organized a car. Twenty minutes later they were in a fancy sports car, racing to Tracy Wilhelm's flat. The receptionist's room had already been searched by the Yard, though very roughly. Tearing down the yellow crime scene tape, Sherlock rushed in, hunting through the small home like a bloodhound on a trail. The group split up, looking desperately for any files that could be worth killing for.  
The rooms looked nothing out of the ordinary. The living room showed the result of excessive movie marathons, empty popcorn boxes and soda cans littering the floor and the couch was worn and covered in cat hair. John searched the kitchen, finding it shockingly empty aside from a suspiciously green looking leftover pasta and some IKEA items. He joined Sherlock in looking through the bedroom, discovering nothing but the traces of a lonely single life, which caused the Detective to retreat quickly. Mycroft called the group into the study, a scarcely furnished room with dusty bookshelves lining the walls and unpaid bills pinned to a cardboard. "Ms Wilhelm was sitting at her desk when her killer entered the room." He reported. "She heard or saw him coming but she didn't run, she wrote something down first. Her attacker grabbed her from behind, there was a struggle and she was taken from the flat. Wasn't killed here though." "How on earth do you know that?" Greg asked, staring at the perfectly quiet room. His partner looked at him in surprise. "The chair left marks on the floor, of course. First a very deep scratch, only a centimetre or so long, where she pushed it back forcefully, in fright of the intruder. She didn't move it enough to get up, only a frightened movement, the first instinct of flight. Her pen is still open, the ink spilled, the tip bend, she wrote something in a hurry and was then stopped." He held up a yellow notepad, a few small drops of ink staining the first sheets. "Then there's lighter and longer scratches on the ground, the colour of the exposed wood is an obvious sign that it's quite recent, the chair was forcefully dragged backwards. Mark of colour on the shelf over there show that the chair eventually fell against it. Her nails left a few scratches on the tapestry behind you so she fought but there is no blood anywhere, she wasn't killed here." He smiled proudly.

"Very well deduced, brother mine." Sherlock remarked "However, you forgot to address the obvious question: What was important enough to write down to risk her life for? A pencil, please, and the notepad, Mycroft." The Detective took the notepad from his brother and began lightly sketching on it, his face tense with concentration. Tracey had, it seemed, copied a few keywords from whatever documents she had stolen. Though the original sheet of paper had been torn off, Sherlock carefully reconstructed the writing, an imprint becoming more and more visible under the thin layer of pencil. The handwriting was messy and hard to read, as though it was written in a hurry. In some places the paper had been pierced by the force of rushed writing. "Hotel Dumort, 21, 1 floor, 3 door on the right" Sherlock read. "I've heard of the Hotel, it's been closed for a few decades, destroyed by a fire, restoration would be incredibly expensive so no one ever cared to buy it. I'm guessing the 21 is referring to a date, could be tonight then. It's the best we've got, I suggest we take a look."  
"Can we be sure they haven't rescheduled?" Mycroft asked. His brother shook his head. "No, we can't, but there's a chance they think taking the original note threw us off track. We don't really have any other trace to follow, do we?" There was a sigh from the other corner of the room, where John was scanning a shelf full of classic literature. "That means waiting in a creepy Hotel all night, hoping that maybe if we are lucky someone will show up and solve the case, doesn't it?" An excited grin spread on his partner's face, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Elementary, my dear Watson."  
"Sherlock, what the hell?"  
"That sounds cool, I should remember that."  
"You're such a Drama Queen."  
"You love me, though!"

Mycroft felt as though he might faint, a strange uncomfortable dizziness spreading in his stomach as he watched his brother plan the oncoming vigil in an animated conversation with his partner. He had made his decision. He envied Sherlock, so seemingly unafraid, comfortable with showing his affection for John, his eyes warm with unconditional love. Noticing the look of insecurity in his secret lover's eyes, Greg moved closer, touching his hand slightly, careful not to let Sherlock see. "You're thinking about talking to him, aren't you?" He asked quietly. "I have to." Mycroft said. "Sherlock is more alive and much happier than I have seen him since he was a little child. You… We deserve to feel like that, I think. And besides, there are things I should have said years ago but never did. After everything that happened, it might be time for change." His boyfriend nodded softly, smiling encouragingly. He wrapped his fingers around the shaking hands for a moment, then backed away, busying himself with a phone call to the Yard.

Sherlock had finished making his plans for the approaching adventure and John got out his phone, leaving the room to find a babysitter for his daughter.  
Taking the chance, Mycroft approached his brother, trying hard to keep his hands from shaking. "Sherlock." He turned around, immediately concerned by the serious tone. "Can we talk?" "We are talking already." "I'm serious, Sherlock, please." He nodded, narrowing his eyes in suspicion and followed him into the small kitchen. Worry washed over him, filling his insides with icy stones. Mycroft wanting a private word with him had never meant good news. The brothers stood close, looking into each other's eyes, both tense with anxiety. There was a heavy weight on Mycroft's chest, making it hard to breath, increasing the feeling of dizziness. "I…" It was as though something was blocking his throat, cutting off the words. "You're never at loss of words, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked, an edge of panic in his voice. "Nothing is wrong." he answered. "Not like that." Mycroft swallowed hard, taking a deep, quivering breath. "I am sorry. For the lies I told you, for making you feel inferior and, at times, worthless." "We were just kids, Mycroft, that's what children do." Sherlock answered softly, reaching out to touch his brother's shoulder.  
"I know" he answered "but I didn't really stop when we got older, did I? Not until it was too late. Until I had forgotten how to be a big brother."  
"We're not like other people. That never bothered you before. What changed?"  
"Thinking I would lose you." Mycroft said, pain in his voice.  
"In Sherrinford?" Sherlock asked. "You would have sacrificed yourself, for me, for John. I never..." He said thoughtfully, his eyes darkening with the memory.  
"Your loss would break my heart, little brother. And losing John would have killed you." He answered, feeling himself relax a bit more. "I truly am sorry, Sherlock. I keep wondering if things would've been different had I been a better brother to you."  
Shaking his head, Sherlock whispered softly, "You did your best. You did what had to be done." He took a deep breath. "I was mad at you, at first, for lying to me about our past. I was very hurt and confused. But I understand, Mycroft." He looked into his brother's eyes, full of warmth and compassion. "I forgive you, it's okay."

The tension between the brothers had lifted and they looked at each other with trust and understanding. Mycroft felt the pressure fade from his chest. He straightened his chest, gathering his strength and courage. "There is… another thing that I wanted to talk to you about." He said carefully. Sherlock looked at him openly, curiosity and worry sparking in his eyes.  
"I have a boyfriend." Mycroft said slowly, feeling the weight lift from his chest as he spoke the words. A quiver ran through his body as he anxiously awaited a response. The seconds of silence that followed felt agonizingly long, as Sherlock stared, taking the information in. Then, he smiled a warm, affectionate smile. "That is very surprising. I'm happy for you." He cocked his head to the side. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? You knew that I'm gay, too, quite possibly before I did."  
"I was afraid." Mycroft confessed. "I am not the man I thought I was, not who I wanted you to see in me. It terrifies me."  
"I know." Sherlock said. "Me too." He chuckled softly at his brother's confused expression. "We are so alike, brother mine. Has it never occurred to you that I might be just as scared as you are? It took me a long time to accept I had feelings for John. Then, I had to accept they would not be reciprocated." He made a sound of amusement. "And now everything is so very new and I am also very terrified. A relationship, raising a child together, I have no idea how to be a boyfriend, much less how to be a father. And I don't know who I am, not really. Do sociopaths fall in love? Can they raise children? Or am I just more human than I thought I was? I am very confused and very scared and that is something I don't recall ever having felt before."  
"How do you cope with that, then?" Mycroft asked. "You look like a natural in all of this."  
Sherlock grinned. "Because I love John. And I love Rosamund. In the end, that's all that matters." He looked at his brother, words never spoken on the tip of his tongue, unsure if he should say them. There was something so vulnerable about the way Mycroft looked at him, seeking for guidance, helplessly lost in this new world of emotions and honesty. He couldn't recall ever seeing him like that.  
"When we were kids" Sherlock said softly, "I was afraid of the dark and I would come into your room at night, climbing into your bed. You were so annoyed that I disturbed your sleep." He laughed quietly. "But you always took me in your arms, told me stories until I fell asleep."  
Mycroft smiled, closing his eyes, memories drifting through his mind. "Yes, I remember that. I told you about the bravest pirates on the seven seas." He chuckled. "At first I looked them up and memorized them from books but then I started making them up, the most ridiculous stories."  
"Sometimes I wasn't even scared." Sherlock admitted. "Sometimes I just wanted to hear the stories."

They laughed quietly, an intimacy between them that they hadn't felt for many years. "I am always there if you need me, Mycroft. No matter when or what." Sherlock said seriously.  
Relieved and overwhelmed with emotions, Mycroft pulled him into a tight embrace, his hands on the slim, bony shoulders, as he had done all these years ago. "I love you, little brother." He whispered. "Love you too, big bro." Sherlock laughed hoarsely.  
They stood for a couple of minutes, lost in memories and feelings they had neglected for such a long time. For just this moment, they were not the famous detective and the cold-hearted man from the government. For just his moment, Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were just two brothers hiding from the dark, telling stories to make the nightmares go away.

When they had calmed their racing hearts and swirling minds, the brothers pulled apart, grinning awkwardly.

"Who is he, then?" Sherlock asked. "The man who melted the heart of ice." Mycroft arched his brow. "Do try harder, brother mine. Can't the master detective deduce such a little, and frankly obvious, thing?" The older brother teased, his eyes moving to the other room, deliberately suggestive. He watched in amusement as the dots connected in Sherlock's brain and the penny dropped with a very visible effect of shock. "How- Since- Why- Him?" The detective's gaze darted from Mycroft to the other room and back. He blinked at him in utter astonishment, then, nodding to himself slowly, took the information in. "He's a good guy… Good- A great choice… uhm… You're official and all?"  
Biting his lip nervously, Mycroft answered "Yeah, we are, ehrr, openly dating, I guess."  
"Good, good, that's great. I'm really happy for you guys, I am just- a bit surprised. Especially because it was obvious. How didn't I see it? Idiot, I-" He stopped. "John knows, doesn't he?"  
"He figured it out quite quickly." Mycroft said. "Gregory made him promise not to tell. Our parents know too, though that was rather an accident." "They're unbearable sometimes, aren't they? You'd think I'm a teenager the way they worry about my private life." They laughed in gleeful agreement.

Both feeling much more safe and light, they left the tiny kitchen and joined their partners in the room next door, who gallantly pretended not to have overheard the conversation through the cheap, thin walls. John put his arm around Sherlock and Greg took Mycroft's hand.


	19. Chapter 19

As the sun set behind the tall buildings of the city, the group got out of their cabs a few streets away from the hotel. The sky was darkening, the first stars appearing on the dark velvet, bright shades of red and pink blazing behind the glass buildings in the distance. They approached the Dumort carefully, scanning the streets for signs of trouble. It seemed empty. Sherlock picked the lock to the side entrance, letting them in through the employee's entrance. Inside the hotel, the air was stale and dusty, blotchy wallpapers hanging from the walls in pieces, windows covered in a layer of dirt, turning the light from outside to a dusty brown. They followed the Detective into the main hall, were a glittering chandelier reflected the dim light, making tiny spots dance on the worn carpet. Here, the walls were black with ash, the furniture charred and the bitter stench of burned wood still lay in the air. A narrow staircase led them to the third floor, were the fire had also destroyed the elegant wallpaper and expensive décor, leaving only a dark corridor filled with ashes and dust. "Could this be any more cliché?" John asked, eyeing the charred walls with a disappointed expression. "At least Moriarty was more original with meetings." Sherlock grinned. He opened the third door on the right, as instructed by the note, revealing what had probably once been a luxurious suite. It was clear that it had been used for meetings before, the remains of burned furniture had been moved aside, the windows were covered up with old newspaper and a metal desk with fold-in chairs now stood in the centre, much newer than anything else in the deserted building. Aside from the improvised office, nothing else showed traces of a living soul having entered the room since it's destruction.

"Let's see, we need somewhere to watch the room without being discovered and with an escape route in case of emergency." Sherlock said, looking around the room. He opened a walk-in closet, inspecting the walls. "Ah, very good, it's got a small door for the cleaning service to enter, Mycroft, I think you and Greg will fit in here just well. Shouldn't be the first time you're hiding in the closet." Mycroft rolled his eyes and John chuckled. "How long have you been waiting to make that very terrible, very cliché joke?" His partner shrugged and inspected the remaining rooms.  
He opened the bedroom door, were more furniture had been stacked up. "John and I can stay here. The window leads to the fire escape, that's good enough." Sherlock rubbed his hands together, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "The game is on!" John rolled his eyes.

The tight space and the stale air made Mycroft's head buzz and he regretted his decision to join his little brother on his quests. He certainly had never before taken this much interest in a case, not even as Moriarty threatened Sherlock's life. But something had changed in the dark rooms of Sherrinford and if Moran had anything to do with it, then Mycroft would make him pay. A nice side effect was, of course, that he was spending more time with Greg than ever before. The DI stared through the air slits in the door, eyes alert, his silhouette just barely visible in the darkness of their hiding place.

Mycroft wasn't sure if it was hours or just a few long minutes, but as his limbs began to ache and his head was heavy with drowsiness, footsteps echoed through the hallway and the door to the suite opened. He felt Greg tense, hand hovering over the gun in his holster. They held their breath, watching the newcomer as he stood in the room, arms crossed nervously, looking around the room in suspicion. The man was in his forties, though his face was lined with age, his graying hair unkempt and his eyes nervously darting between the door and the windows, as if he was planning a quick escape. With a dramatic creaking, the door opened again and in came an elegantly dressed man, swinging a walking cane in one hand, opening his arms in a mockingly friendly gesture. "Reginald, old friend!" He laughed, smiling broadly although his eyes were cold and hard. Musgrave glared at him with a mixture of fury and fear. "I am no friend of yours, Moran. Keith was my friend!" He growled. "I know it was you, you and your men. I saw the pictures on the news." A flicker of grief crossed over his features. "you that wasn't necessary, he wouldn't have told anyone! Keith was loyal! This is over! Whatever you are planning for that Holmes and his friends, I will have no part in it." The man's eyes blazed with rage, but as he was shouting, he took careful steps towards the window. Sebastian Moran smiled calmly, twisting the cane in his hands. "Oh my dear, I know he wouldn't have talked, the cops had him in for a couple of times and he was as loyal as a pup." He shrugged carelessly. "You have to understand, it was nothing personal. I had already disposed of the girl and it was all a bit messy so I had to start over. Your poor friend just happened to be there and frankly, I had no use for him anymore." His opponent hissed furiously, his face twisted with pain and anger. "You are a monster, colonel." Moran laughed softly. "Well, this has been fun but I have more pressing matters at hand. You have been quite useful to me but I'm afraid it's time to part ways." He moved aside in swift, dancing motion and the air was split by a deafening crash as the window shattered and a flower of dark crimson spread on Reginald Musgrave's chest. The body dropped face first on the floor, a pool of blood slowly soaking through the burned carpet. Moving as proud and elegant as a performer on stage, Colonel Moran danced over the corpse and opened the bedroom door. "I assume I don't have to explain the situation to you, Mr Holmes?"

Mycroft tensed, fear tightening his chest, his heart leaping against his ribs in pure panic as he watched his brother and John slowly leave their hiding place, their head and chest covered in steady red dots. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and could roughly make out his partner gesturing him to stay quite.

Moran laughed merrily, spinning around in a dancing motion. "Oh what a déjà vu, isn't it?" He cocked his head to the side. "Don't you remember? Oh, well it's been quite a while and then again, of course you didn't see me but I was there, at the pool!" His voice was gleeful and excited, like a little child playing with his toys. "Mind you, I would have shot you on the spot. But Jim did like his games…" Sherlock stared at him, brows knitted together in confusion. Icy fear spread through his stomach, he forced himself to remain calm, struggling to keep his features set, trying very hard not to look at John. "You can have your revenge, Moran. Shoot me, torture me, I am at your mercy." He said, moving slightly to the window, trying to shield John from the snipers outside, his heart beating hard and fast. "Oh Sherloock" the colonel shook his head "that is adorable! No, no, no, I don't want to kill you, that's so boooring." The Detective squinted his eyes, trying to understand. He had been there before but he had known Moriarty, thought like him, been able to anticipate his actions. This man was strange and unpredictable. A different kind of madness.

Something changed in Sebastian Moran's eyes as he looked at John, who was staring at him with the courageous pokerface of a soldier. Raw pain flashed across the villain's face, followed by white hot anger. The dangerously calm performance was broken and he roared angrily. "You will suffer, Sherlock Holmes, I will rip your heart out and crush it to pieces!" He raised his cane, pointing it at John. "Can you imagine what it's like? The one person you love more than anyone else, more than yourself, the centre of your universe, gone." He spat bitterly and swung his weapon, breaking the glass behind the two men. Red dots continued dancing over their heads. Sherlock's chest tightened painfully, he took another step towards the window behind John, looking at Moran with cold, angry eyes. "I did not kill Jim Moriarty. He-" "I know what happened on the roof! I was there!" Moran hissed, "I was there, watching helplessly, doing as I was told. I was there, hoping and praying the plan would work out. I was there, watching him point the gun at his own head! It was you who should have died, your death not his!" Rage twisted the handsome features, the man seemed to be shaking with emotions and Sherlock noticed that his eyes were glistening with tears. "I loved him and he loved me and I was always there and then he was gone and there was nothing I could do. Nothing but watch." He gasped. "And after all that suffering, you came back and he didn't." Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sherlock felt a pang of sympathy and immediately despised himself for it. Yet there was something about the honest emotions in his opponent's words that was both pitiful and terrifying in about it. John found his compassion to be stronger than his fear and anger. Memories of nights spend in terrible pain and loneliness washed over him. "Colonel Moran, I am so sorry for your loss," he said carefully, "Believe me, I understand-" "Don't you dare!" Moran shouted. "don't you dare pretend that you understand. Your feelings for him mean nothing! I watched you, John Watson, I watched you pretend to care and then marry the next available girl who happened to cross your path. You are pathetic!" "That is not true!" John said darkly, clenching his fists angrily. "You don't know the first thing about my feelings-" "SILENCE" The colonel screamed with such dangerous tone that the room seemed to freeze. He took a deep breath and smiled viciously, the eerie calm returning to his posture and voice. "I will kill you, Sherlock Holmes, and it will be slow and painful, watching your loved ones die before your eyes, and there is nothing you can do." In a sudden, unexpected movement he slashed the metal foot of his cane across John's face, Sherlock moved instinctively, wrapping his body around his partner protectively. Sebastian Moran left the room, walking slowly, swinging the now bloodied cane. "See you in hell."

John pulled his hands away from his face, cursing through clenched teeth, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I'm fine, it's okay." He gasped, getting to his feet. Sherlock glanced at him, eyes round with worry, examining the wound. A long gash ran over his cheek, the skin was torn and bruised but it wasn't deep and neither eyes nor nose or mouth were affected. The detective guessed it wasn't luck. Moran wanted to play this game by his own rules, letting them know it was him who decided their fate and there was nothing they could do. He kissed John's forehead softly, closing his eyes for a moment in a pained expression.

The red dots disappeared, telling them the snipers had gone and so had their attacker. For the moment, the danger had passed. "You can come out." Sherlock said hoarsely, looking at the closet door. Nothing happened. Silence fell over the hotel room. Nothing but Sherlock and John's tense breathing. "Mycroft?" Panic rising in his chest, he dashed forward and tore open the door. In the back of the room, light flooded through the servant's backdoor, now wide open. Greg was lying spread-eagled on the floor. John bent down, examining the DI's body as his partner dashed out on the hallway, calling frantically for his brother, footsteps echoing through the abandoned building as he ran up and down. The hopelessness in his voice hit John worse than any weapon could have done.

Sherlock's eyes were staring blankly ahead, his face pale and strangely empty. John sat next to him in the ambulance, holding his hand, a large white bandage covering his cheek. Due to his partner's state of shock and his own injury, the paramedics had insisted to have someone pick them up and make sure they got home safely. He felt guilty for not staying with Greg as he was taken to the hospital to make sure he woke up safely, but Sherlock was in a terrible state and he would always be John's first priority. Sergeant Donovan had been on the police squad sent to investigate the hotel scene and had agreed to stay with her co-worker instead. For the first time ever, she had looked at the Consulting Detective with compassion and kindness.

Wheels screeching, the flaming red car of their landlady pulled up in the driveway, causing the police officers to jump out of the way with angry shouts. Ignoring their protests, Mrs Hudson pushed them aside and threw her arms around Sherlock and John. "Oh Sherlock" She cried, "! I am so sorry! We will find him and we will make them pay!" A paramedic pushed the officer away from them, demanding space and rest for his patients. "Ma'am, you have come to pick them up?" Her arms wrapped around Sherlock protectively, Mrs Hudson nodded. "Yes, I will get them home if you don't mind." Without waiting for a reply, she gently pulled Sherlock towards her car, speaking softly. "Come on now, get some rest. I will make you a nice cup of tea and then we will all come up with a plan! Get in the car, dear, please. There you go." Stroking the tangle of black curls gently, she positioned him on the back seat, her face clouded with worry.


	20. Chapter 20

After a tense, silent car ride, the group arrived at Bakerstreet, John and Mrs Hudson guiding Sherlock upstairs and into his bed. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The landlady pulled a blanket over him and went to make some tea. "I'll be right back, Rosie will be here any moment." John said quietly, kissing Sherlock's forehead.  
A few minutes later, his daughter on his arm, he checked on Mrs Hudson in the kitchen. She was staring at the kettle, brows pulled together in worry, nails drumming on the kitchen table. "It works better when you switch it on." He said kindly. Her head jerked up as if she had been torn from a deep thought. "I'm sorry, I forgot..." "It's okay, let me help." He placed Rosamund in her chair, supplying her with a toy, stroking her head lovingly.  
"Oh John, what happened? What are we going to do about Sherlock? I have never seen him like that, all scared and defeated. Sherlock doesn't give up!" She cried out, burying her face. John took her hands in his, holding them carefully. "Don't worry Mrs H., we'll fix it." He said only half sure, doubt flickering in his eyes. "What happened, John?" Pulling his daughter close, he told the landlady about Moran and his accusations, leaving out his final threat. "He has been a lot more susceptible to emotional pain since the events at Sherinford." He said, "This torture chamber really scarred him more than he lets on, he hasn't really recovered from the blow yet. Sherlock was close to losing his brother once, I think all this is more than he can take right now. And Moran made it pretty clear who's in charge of this game. It all looks a bit hopeless." Mrs Hudson let out a soft wail of pity. "Oh poor Sherlock, he's been through so much, it isn't fair! And to think I was so unfair to Mycroft…" She shook her head gloomily. "It's okay, he wasn't always the nicest person to be around. I do wonder why they took him and left Greg behind." "And how in the world did that awful colonel even find you?" Mrs Hudson asked. "He didn't." sounded a frail voice from the door and Sherlock dragged himself in, leaning against John's shoulder, gently touching Rosie's cheek with a weak smile. "We've been playing his game all this time. Moriarty's videos, Sherinford, Musgrave and then all those clues we followed, we just walked straight into his trap. I was so blind, so stupid." "You should rest, love, please go to bed." Sherlock shook his head. "We have to find him, John! I can't lose him, not after I just got him back. And I can't let Moran hurt anyone else. You wondered why he left Greg? He wants to make sure I know that he can take him anytime he wants. It's not a coincidence or a mistake, nothing was. And I can't just sit around and wait for him to take the next person I care about, there has to be something I can do, I need to keep you safe!" His eyes were full of panic as he pulled his daughter close to him, shaking. With the soft determination of a doctor, John forced his partner to sit down, trying to calm him down. "You need to rest, Sherlock. If we want to help your brother, and we will, then we need you to be strong. Soldiers today, remember?" He placed Rosie on his lap. "We need you to stay calm, rest and then we will come up with a plan. I promise, we will find him." His voice breaking, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Rosie, whispering. "What if there is nothing left of him to find?"

Cold stone on his skin. A strong throbbing in his head. His mouth dry and spongy. He tried to open his eyes but the lids seemed to be glued shut. His limbs were heavy and tingly. Trying to lift his head sent a sharp pain down his spine.  
"Oh don't push yourself too hard, take your time." A bittersweet voice sounded from the other site of the room. "You might experience severe headaches, memory loss, the usual. But don't worry, I told my boys to keep their hands to themselves."  
Mycroft forced himself to blink, his head screaming as bright light pierced his eyes. In the flashing image, he recognized the outline of Colonel Moran, leaning against a stone wall and very dim light coming from an old gas light in the corner. They were in some kind of storage room, metal shelves lining the walls, barrels stacked up in the corner. As the feeling returned to his limbs, Mycroft realized he was lying on his side, head resting on the hard stone floor, arms and legs a useless tangle.  
He remembered the hotel room and the snipers and the threats the Colonel had made. The last thing he could make out was fear for his brother and Greg's hand holding his own. Then everything went black. Greg. Ice cold fear spread through his stomach. He tried desperately to remember the seconds before he blacked out but it was useless. Mycroft tried hard to conceal his worries, forcing his feelings down, trying to shut them away has he had always done, so many years. He built up the walls around his heart, struggling to conceal the stabbing pain and icy worry as the memories of warm brown eyes disappeared behind a cold façade. What was it that his brother and John had said? Soldiers today.

Moran moved, kneeling in front of his prisoner, looking down on him triumphantly. "What's it like to be on the other side of the shackles, Mr. Holmes? To be the one who's alone and lost, forever imprisoned in a cold, dark room?" He sat down on one of the barrels, chuckling. "Oh I would've loved to kill you, right there, your body lying in your partner's arms, watching your poor little brother weep. What a sight that would've been! But alas, your sister wanted you alive! Now, I realize she's in a bad place right now, you kinda ruined it for her, but a deal is a deal."  
Mycroft tried to speak but his throat was sore and his mouth dry. He coughed, almost choking on the dust.

Sebastian smiled. "Shocked, are you? Did you really think your sister did all that on her own?" He scoffed. "Puh-lease, even Euros isn't that powerful! Jim made a lot of preparations, yes, but she still needed someone from the outside to help. It was such fun! I got to test all my little chemicals on the prison staff. The human brain is so easily manipulated." He laughed. "And the best part is, you actually believed it! Euros Holmes, controlling people's minds by simply being clever… She's not a demon, Mycroft. Did you never wonder how she got off that island? Who supplied her with the wigs and contacts or the little messages Jim made?" His eyes glinted maliciously, "You really are terrified of her, aren't you?"  
Mycroft gagged and spat, fighting through the pain, struggling to find his voice. "You realize how cliché this situation is?" He rasped. "The lonely storage room, abduction and long speeches about accomplishments and plans? At least Moriarty was original." If he was going to die today, he would die with dignity. Forcing his heavy, aching head up, he stared at his captor, eyes flashing with pride.

Moran's face hardened. "You think you are so smart, all three of you." He stood up, kicking dirt in his prisoner's face. "I will break you" he spat, "until that brain you are so terribly proud of will spiral down into insanity."

Blinding light pierced Greg's eyes. His entire body ached, his lungs were screaming and his head felt dizzy and heavy, as if it was stuffed with soaked cotton. He blinked. In the blurred vision, he could roughly make out a lot of white, the silhouette of people a few steps away. Murmured voices, numbed as though they were underwater. Someone left. Another stayed. Were they speaking to him?  
He blinked again, straining his ears to function.  
"Are you okay?" The voice sounded blurred and strange but it was there. "Greg?" A pleasantly cool hand touched his forehead. The Detective forced his eyes open again. Slowly, Molly Hooper came into focus, looking down on him in concern. He realized he was in a hospital. Again.  
Grunting, he lifted himself up a bit. Molly hovered over him, arranging his pillows like an overly protective mother. "John told me to say sorry they're not here but Sherlock isn't feeling well." She said kindly. "They used a pretty strong drug on you, the kind you find in … well party drinks, usually. You'll feel a bit crushed but there won't be any lasting side effects." Blurry memories of the closet and Moran's angry speech flooded Greg's head, making it heavy and painful. The last thing he could remember was taking Mycroft's hand to calm him and then everything went black. Mycroft. "Where's Mycroft, is he alright? Can we see him?" Molly bit her lip nervously, her eyes round and sad. "I am so sorry, Greg. I'm really so sorry to be the one to tell you this but – they took him. We don't know where he is."

The world around him collapsed. Everything started swirling, panic spreading through his chest. He was vaguely aware of his friend's voice calling out to him. Pain spread through is shaking body like a raging fire. Suddenly, all the air seemed to leave his body, his breath came in deep gasps, his lungs tight and hard as stone. Someone pressed a mask on his face. Warm arms wrapped around him, hugging him tightly. A warm feeling on his cheek told him one of them was definitely crying. Greg buried his face in his friend's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of perfume and cold metal (and maybe a bit of corpse). Slowly, his breathing slowed down, the room stopped moving but his aching chest remained tight and his heart beat painfully strong against his ribs. "it's okay, it's okay" Molly whispered and carefully let go of him but stayed close, holding his hand. "Feeling better?" she asked carefully, removing the mask. "I know you're scared for him, we all are, but panic isn't going to help us out. Sherlock is on the case and he will raise hell to get his brother back." She wiped her own tears away. "And besides, Mycroft is an important man, they probably have a team of the best forces in all of England working on it." Greg nodded weakly. "Yeah, they have us." Taking a deep breath, he tried desperately to push his feelings aside, put them in a small box in his head, focusing on the case. That's what it was, a case that needed solving.

Molly smiled, "And we're already on it. I took a look at Musgrave's body, he wasn't in the best shape, all bony and weak, so I opened him and found a tumour in his brain. He was dying." The Detective furrowed his brows thoughtfully. "That explains why he wanted to get away from the criminal life. Any hints where he was hiding?" Molly nodded, getting out a notepad. "He had a key on him for a small rental storage room. Sergeant Donovan took a team down there to investigate." She let go of her friend's hand and got up. "You should rest and let them take care of you. There's a fully armed police force out there to watch you, so no worries. I'll see what I can do to help and I'll come back later." Greg nodded. "Thank you. And stay safe!" Molly shrugged, "I don't think I'm in a lot of danger, it's not like we're that close." She turned to walk away but her friend grabbed her wrist carefully, looking at her warmly. "You know that's not true. Molly, you are one of his closest friends, and that means something, it's Sherlock Holmes we're talking about. You are important, to all of us, and we won't let anyone hurt you. So please, stay safe." He let go of her wrist, pressing her hand gently, before she turned around and left the room wordlessly. As the door shut behind her, Greg was left alone with his fear and pain, feeling more lost than ever before.


	21. Chapter 21

It was a strange and terrible feeling, the devastating emptiness in his chest, it felt hollow and painful, unlike anything he had ever experienced.  
"Your loss would break my heart."  
A few years ago, having any kind of sentimental feelings had seemed like a joke, a human error, and Sherlock was not human, not like them. He and Mycroft had watched the outside world from what they thought was a high throne, while all these silly humans got tangled in their relationships and drama, the two of them were free and superior.  
True, in the past years that he had spent with John, Sherlock had started to truly care for many people, to the point where he considered many his friends and part of his family. He had softened, had learned about love and loss, neither of them were the cold machined they used to be.

But even then he would have never thought he could feel like this. So lost. So afraid.  
It had torn him apart when he watched John get married and live his normal human life with someone else. But at least he had known that he was safe, that Mary was there to take care of him.  
Right now, they had no idea where Mycroft was, if he was even still alive. There was no one there to comfort his brother who, too, had become much more vulnerable over the past months. Just now, when the brothers had finally opened up to each other, when it seemed like they could be a family again, he had lost him.

Sherlock buried his face deeper into the pillows, fighting to suppress the helpless scream building up in his throat. He was curled up in his bed, after John had forced him to rest. God, he hated himself for being such a pathetic mess, crying in his sheet like a dramatic teenager. In the moment where he needed his superior brain the most, Sherlock's heart betrayed him. Over and over he had tried to review the facts, desperately searching for an answer, but his mind palace was infested with fears. Whenever he closed his eyes and walked inside, images of his brother showed up around every corner, merged with the most horrible corpses he had seen during his work with the yard. Sebastian Moran had managed what Jim Moriarty had worked so hard to achieve and become the virus in his hard drive, more terrible than anything the Detective could have imagined.

"Your flat is so easy to break into. Never thought of installing an alarm?"  
Sherlock rose his head from the pile of pillows to find the elegant silhouette of Irene Adler perched on the side of his bed. "And you're not really on your guard either, it's pathetic, really." The Detective sat up, trying hard not to look as terrible as he felt. "There is an entire police force outside." He said calmly. Irene gave him a reproachful look. "This is pathetic." She said, leaning forward to study his face. "No drugs?" "John made me promise." "How honourable." Leaning back, the Woman crossed her arms, watching him, her fiery gaze flickering in a soft hint of sympathy. "I warned you. You didn't listen. You just had to hunt him down, right into his trap." Sherlock's head snapped up. "You knew about the trap? You led us into it?" She flinched. "Do you really think I'd sink that low?" she asked, hurt. "There were rumour, about a new conspiracy to bring you down but I couldn't find out what it was about. All I knew was that Moran is dangerous in a way Moriarty could never be. Jim did all this for sports, it was a passionate hobby to watch the criminal world do his bidding and have you chase after them, like a dog retrieving the same ball over and over again. But Sebastian took over not because he sought power or entertainment but for revenge. He is fuelled by his pain and rage and there is no stopping him."

"Why are you here?"  
"To bathe in the glory of my victory?" Irene suggested, "I was right and you were wrong and now you're a mess." Sherlock just stared at her, his expression empty. Her gaze softened. "He's alive, Sherlock. Find him."  
Sherlock's heart jumped and he drew a sharp, short breath, looking at the Woman questioningly, as hope bloomed in his eyes. "Where is he? Tell me!" He reached to grab her but she moved aside with the swift elegance of a wild cat. "I don't know and I will not find out. I am already in danger. Sacrifice your life for your brother if you have to but don't demand the same of me." She said sternly, before melting back into the shadows, the door closing noiselessly behind her. New energy rushing through his veins, Sherlock jumped to his feet, dashing out behind her and into the living room, where notes and files covered every available surface, including the floor.

The pain in his head had stopped. There was a bowl of what looked like undercooked porridge and a glass of water. Mycroft sat up, looking around the room. Now that the drug had completely left his system, he could see the room more clearly. There were no sounds or windows to give him an idea where his prison was. The walls looked very old, it might be church or castle or an old country house. Trails in the dust on the floor told Mycroft that the shelves had been moved quite recently and it looked like there had been a table in the centre before they had rearranged the storage room to a prison. Might have been a bar or restaurant. He took a closer look at the shelves lining the room's walls. It wasn't food as he had expected, but a collection of tools and metals bars. A large anvil was half hidden in the shadows, confirming his theory he was kept in what used to be a smith's workplace. Ignoring his grumbling stomach, Mycroft pushed the food away, suspicious of what else might be in it. Upon trying to stand up, he realized he was shackled to the wall with a pair of handcuffs connecting his ankle to a metal ring protruding from the stone wall. How classy.

Anxiety spread through his insides, cold and painful, making his hands shake and his chest deflate. Even if he made it out of the room, chances were, the door was heavily guarded. The building was probably full of Moran's men. His chances of survival where the highest while he stayed in the storage room, hoping someone would come to save him. God, he hated himself for it. Pathetic. The damsel in distress. Praying that his brother came for his rescue.  
Feeling defeated, Mycroft leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. If Sherlock was still out there, then he would find him. He had never let him down.

Still feeling a bit weak, leaning on Molly for support, Gregory Lestrade entered the room at 221B, the last refuge for the hopeless and the terrified. Never before had it seemed so accurate. Sherlock was leaning over a pile of files, John had Rosie pressed closely to his chest and Mrs Hudson was skipping through every newspaper London had to offer. Molly helped Greg into an armchair before joining Sherlock at the coffee table. "Are you sure he's well enough to be here?" he asked her softly. "Mycroft is his boyfriend, Sherlock, he has a right to be part of this." She reached into her bag and pulled out another file. "Lab reports on Reginald Musgrave plus any information I could get from his doctors." The pathologist looked at him with worried eyes. "You look like you need some rest. He's not using again, is he?" She asked John, who shook his head. "No, but he isn't sleeping and he says his mind palace isn't working correctly." Sherlock shook his curls violently. "It's poisoned. No matter where I go, I can't reach the information I need without seeing my brother." He took the file from Molly, who sat down next to him, hand on his shoulder. "I know you're hurt and scared but we can't do this without you. Mycroft needs you! Focus!" Her voice was kind but stern and Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath. "You're right." He sighed. "First of, take out the batteries of your phones. I already checked the apartment. I have no idea what Moran is capable of, so we can't take any chances. Good. Well then, let's see if there's anything important in the medical files."

John sat Rosie down, supplying her with a toy to take a look at the new clues. They shuffled through the paper, reading intently.  
"She said her first word a couple of days ago, did they tell you?" Mrs Hudson asked quietly. Greg shook his head, "No they didn't, that's great!" "What did she say?" Molly asked. The landlady smiled warmly. "Called John 'Daddy' when he was reading her story, it was lovely. She also started saying 'no' a lot, suppose she hears that word too often."  
There was a loud rustling and the group looked up to see Sherlock throw the files away in frustration. "Nothing! There's just no point!" He buried his head in his hands. "This is useless, I am useless, I lost him." His voice was breaking. John wrapped his arms around his partner, trying to calm him. "Sherlock, everyone you trust and care about is here, we are all there for you and we will find your brother." "How? So far, Moran knew my every step, I blindly fell into his trap, it is my fault Mycroft is missing and there is no way for us to know if Moran has more for all of us in store. He promised he'd destroy me and he won't sit and wait for me to stop him." Greg flinched. "Why hasn't he done anything yet? It's kinda obvious we would all end up here." Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know, I can't understand the way he thinks." "Why did Musgrave need the Greeks?" Molly asked. "He needed someone to help him with the riddle." John answered. "He went to Greece," she said slowly, "to find the Kratides siblings, a week after his last doctor's visit. After he was told the tumour in his brain wasn't treatable." Sherlock rose his head, eyes wide and blazing. "If he knew he didn't have long to live anyway, why was he so intent to find his ancestor's treasure? Why didn't I see that before, Molly you're amazing!" He started to eagerly skip through the papers, face set to a keen, determined expression.

"Sherlock. John." Molly said quietly, smiling. The pair looked up, following her gaze. Feeling left out, Rosie had pulled herself up into a standing position, holding on tightly to the coffee table and was looking at her parents with big, sparkling eyes. Taking a clumsy step, she fell towards Sherlock, who caught her and scooped her up. "We'll have to practise that, huh?" He said warmly. "Papa?" Rosie answered, padding her tiny hand on his head. Sherlock's face lit up, he laughed softly and kissed his daughters cheek, a tear of joy glistening in his eyes. "Yes, yes, that's me, well done! Oh, you smart little kid!" A wave of warmth went through the room, as Sherlock and John praised the girl for her achievement, trying to make her take another step. Pleased to be back in the centre of attention, Rosamund proudly wobbled on her feet, managing something between walking and falling.

Molly leaned against Greg's armchair, thankful for the bit of distraction to ease her friend's mind. "She's as stubborn as her parents." She said affectionately. "They're really great together, Sherlock and John. She's lucky." Hearing the pain in her voice, Greg took his friend's hand. "I admire you a lot, you know." He said quietly. "You're such a strong and kind person. And we surely wouldn't be here without you." She looked at him in surprise. "Thank you."

"Children!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, scooping Rosie up into his arm, making her squeal with delight. "Like cab driver Moriarty employed! Musgrave must have children that need taking care of, that's what he needed the money for." John picked up the papers again. "But there's no trace of any family except the distant relatives from Greece. We researched his family tree for ages when we took the case." Molly picked up a part of the medical files, waving them up in excitement. "He was sperm donor! Four years ago. I guess the debts his parents left him with where so high he got a bit desperate. It was anonymous, the children wouldn't show up as his descendants but it got into his record after the tumour was discovered." "You're on fire today Molly!" Sherlock hugged her, with his free arm, placing an excited kiss on her cheek. Rosie leaned forward to pat her head. "Any chance you know the woman who received the donation?" "Women." Molly corrected him. "Marilyn and Samantha Jones, a young couple living in Norwood Hill. Do you want me to try and get the medical files on them?" Sherlock nodded eagerly. "We need anything we can find on them. But don't use any electronic devices, stay in populated areas and don't ever go anywhere alone. I'll send message out through the homeless network. We'll do a background check from Mycroft's office, it's the hardest to infiltrate. Mrs Hudson, you and Rosie should stay in the Diogenes Club, it's probably the safest place. My parents are already there. Let's go there's no time to lose!" Pressing his daughter into John's arms, he dashed out of the door and down the staircase. "I'll get Rosie's stuff, you get yours." John said, "Quickly!"

The group got their equipment together, Greg announced that he felt well enough to accompany Molly, making a point that together they were less vulnerable. John called for a cab, sending the first three away before settling for the fourth as an extra security measure. Just as he wanted to call out for Sherlock, his daughter already strapped to the safety seat, an ear splitting scream pierced the air, followed by the sound of shattered glass.


	22. Chapter 22

Hearts beating fast, the group dashed down the road, into a small backyard. A woman in ragged clothes lay unconscious on the grass, the soil soaking with her blood. Behind her, a pub with it's freshly broken windows, the door half open, sounds of struggle coming from within. Greg was vaguely aware of a shadow moving in the corner of his eye, disappearing onto the streets, as he ran to help his friend. A thug in black hoodie was pushing Sherlock down on the debris, a gleaming blade in his hand, screaming with fury as he tried to shake the Detective's hand of his wrist. Behind them, a second attacker earned heavy blows from a dirty, bearded man – one of Sherlock's street agents - , who had disarmed the offender's gun and was now landing well-placed hits with a candlestick.

John launched himself into the fight, pulling the thug away from his partner, trying to kick the knife out of his hands. He wrapped his arm around the man's throat and aimed for his own gun with the other. Sherlock remained on the floor, curled up, motionless. The criminal rammed his elbow into his sides, knocking the air from his lungs. Gasping for breath, John kicked the other man's kneecaps skilfully, making him drop to his knees with a cry of agony. Rage filled the wounded's face as he threw the blade, but the army doctor was faster, dodging the missile and sending him crashing into the bar with a well-placed kick.

Meanwhile, Lestrade had aimed his gun at the second thug, declairing his position at the Yard, as he tried to get a clean shot without hurting Sherlock's agent. The thug skilfully hid behind the larger man, as she dodged the candlestick attacks, sliding behind a row of tables. Greg climbed on the bar, jumping on the next tables, aiming his revolver at the attacker, shouting again. The bearded man threw his improvised weapon at the criminal, causing a short distraction, and dived under the table. Without hesitation, Greg fired and hit the assassin's shoulder. The woman screamed in pain but took cover behind the furniture. He heard a loud crash behind him, as the second thug was thrown into the bar and John loudly declared his victory.

For a moment, an eerie silence fell over the lonely pub. John had tackled his attacker to the bar, his revolver pressed to his chest, Molly hovered over Sherlock and Greg had his gun fixed on the second criminal, as the homeless agent pulled her from behind the tables. Sherlock murmured something into Molly's ear, she nodded and left the building, checking on the unconscious woman before putting the battery back into her phone to make a phone call. Handcuffs snapped and both assassins where placed against the bar. John wrapped his arms around his partner. "Sherlock, are you okay? What happened?" The detective leaned against his shoulder weakly, pressing his hand to his stomach, eyes dull and exhausted. Blood ran down his forehead and from his nose. The criminals stared at him triumphantly. "He was giving us our orders when we were attacked." Said the bearded man. "One of 'em got poor Jess and knocked her out, then they went for Mr. Holmes and that bitch over there came for me. I'm an old veteran, I know how to defend myself but poor Holmes was overrun. Your arrival sent the third one flying, bloody coward." "What's your name, soldier?" John asked. The man chuckled. "I ain't now soldier no more, sir. My name's Jeff. I've been working for Mr. Holmes many years, he's a good man, Sir, gives us work, never jugdes." "I know." John smiled.

"Whatever it is that he was planning," Molly said. "It can wait. He's injured too badly, look at his head wound and there's probably severe internal injury. He needs rest and we need him!" Greg's eyes flashed with shock. "But we can't stop looking now! We have to find-" "It can wait!" Molly said sternly. "We can't risk losing anyone else."

John supported Sherlock, as he climbed into the ambulance and demanded to stay with him during the ride. The two criminals were pushed into a police car, the officer turned around to Lestrade, but the DI was discussing furiously with Molly, speaking in low voices. After making sure that both Sherlock and Jess were safe, Jeff quietly disappeared in the busy streets. The ambulance took off, Greg and Molly following with another officer, leaving the pub, now swarming with cops, behind them.

Inside the ambulance, John held Sherlock's hand tightly, his face dark with worry. The paramedic, a young, handsome man in his early thirties with a confident smile, checked the machinery, pushed some buttons and then nodded to himself. "All safe Mr. Holmes, no surveillance possible in here." He dropped on the free seat, crossing his arms, grinning proudly. To his John's surprise, the Detective sat up, his keen eyes filling with energy, smiling brightly. "Ah, thank you very much, Steve, your cooperation is very useful to us!" John stared at him in shock, then, realization slowly hit him. "Are you kidding me?" He growled through clenched jaws. Sherlock hesitated and bit his lip nervously. "What is this, Sherlock?"  
"I'm sorry John, I really am, but I had to improvise quickly, there was no time to lose."  
"But Molly said-? She examined you, she was worried!"  
"Yes and she was perfectly sure I was alright when she leaned over me, so I told her to get someone from St. Bart's whom she trusts and ask them to make a big deal out of it, tell everyone my life it at stake."  
"Why would you lie to so many people?" He sighed.  
"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Those thugs were obviously sent by dear friend Moran to slow us down, which also tells me we're on the right track. I let them beat me up just enough to look wounded, but you know I am not that easy to break. We are going to the hospital, put on a little show and you will all make it look as if my situation is very critical. Hopefully, Moran falls for it and t will buy us some time. As soon as the colonel calls off his hounds we can continue our hunt. Molly and Lestrade are on their way to the Yard, they can start from there. Mrs. Hudson and Rosie will be safe at the Diogenes' Club and you and I will work from here until it's safe to leave. Which means absolute caution with any electric devices and with strangers. I need both you and Steve's help to keep other doctors from examining me too closely." The paramedic nodded. "You can rely on me, Mr. Holmes, whoever it is you're hiding from, they better watch out. No one hurts Molly Hooper's friends and get away with it, that woman is fierce."

"And you have no idea who could have sent those people after Mr. Holmes and why?" Inspector Gregson arched his brow doubtfully.  
Molly shook her head. "No, Sir."  
He flipped through his notes. "Ms. Hooper, you have been investigating the body of a certain Ms. Wilhelm, is that right?"  
"Yes, Sir, I was in charge of the medical examination." Her voice was steady and clear, her eyes flashed with annoyance.  
"But you did more than that, didn't you? You also asked to see all her records, any papers you could get your hands at, as well as those of a Reginald Musgrave, recently murdered at the same crime where Mr. Mycroft Holmes was abducted, a scene that they were not allowed to even be at. Breaking and entering is a serious crime. Mr. Sherlock Holmes said it was part of an investigation. Who was he investigating and why?"  
Molly shot him an angry glance. "You know what he says about the Yard, don't you? That you're too narrow minded, lacking the imagination to see the full picture?" She crossed her arms. "Your colleague was injured, his friends attacked and his boyfriend is missing, you could at least show some sympathy."  
Gregson's eyes opened in surprise. "Boyfriend? Since when's Greg gay?"  
Slapping her hands to the desk angrily, Molly stood up and glared at the Inspector, eyes burning furiously. "Any further questions go to my lawyer." The door slammed shut behind her.

"I can't believe him." She hissed. Greg laid his arm around her soothingly. "He's just trying to do his job." The friends walked between the high metal shelves of the Scotland Yard's file storage. "And you could've been a bit nicer." Molly crossed her arms defiantly. "I only did what Sherlock asked me to do. I hope you did, too." He nodded. "Yeah, it's gonna cause me some trouble with my boss but people here have learned to trust Sherlock in his decisions." Pulling a cardboard box from the shelves. "This is going to take ages." He sighed, opening the file box, shuffling through the papers. "Aren't they going to find out we're down here?" Molly asked. Greg shook his head. "No one ever really checks the files in person when there's a computer system. And if they do, they send interns or secretaries to fetch them. Or Donovan in my case." Molly shot him an angry glance. "I really should apologize for that." He added quickly.

Mycroft couldn't fight his pride any longer. The instinct of survival was too strong. He had eagerly swallowed the stale porridge and water they had given him. Ashamed and empty, he cowered in his cell, face in hands, as muffled voices sounded from behind his door. He lifted his head and strained to listen.  
"Pleasure to see you here so soon, love." Moran said sarcastically. A female voice answered him. "I came to report, as you asked me to." Mycroft recognized her, Irene Adler. Of course she'd be working for him. Anything for money.  
"Your little troop of assassins took it a bit far, they almost killed him. Hospital records say he suffered severe internal injuries."  
"Really? I would've thought better of him. The famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, defeated by a group of cheap thugs." He scoffed. "How can I be sure you're not lying to me?"  
"I have hospital records, police reports and your filthy underworld scum who I just bought from prison." She hissed. "If you're not careful you'll get him killed before you get what you want."  
"I know what I am doing!" Moran shouted. "I will have my revenge, exactly how I want it and a bitch like you can't stop me!"  
"You are nothing on him, you know?" Irene said coldly. "Jim Moriarty was a criminal mastermind, you are whiny boy with a few boot-lickers to boss around. You can play your little game for now but sooner or later someone will bully you of that playground." Her statement was followed by the familiar echo of clicking heels, fading as she walked away. There was a banging against the cell door. "Hear that? Your little brother's good as dead. And so are you."

Icy fear spread through him, crawling under his skin, making his chest heavy and tight. Sherlock was a good fighter. What could possibly have happened that a group of ordinary thugs beat him?  
His brother was injured, his friends in danger, the love of his life far away. No one would come for him. All was lost. He was alone.


	23. Chapter 23

John moved quietly through the hallway of the hospital, avoiding eye-contact, trying hard to look purposeful. A group of nurses passed, chatting loudly. He approached the office and, leaning against the closed door casually, pretended to look at his phone until the hallway cleared. The door was unlocked and the former soldier slid into the dim room noiselessly. He hoped that Sherlock's assumption was right and he wasn't committing a felony for nothing. Doctor Roylott's office was lined with shelves featuring multiple thick volumes of lexica and other medical reference. Anatomy models, old and dusty, were carelessly thrown into the corners behind some sad looking, dehydrated plants. On an oak table in the centre of the room stood his laptop. John opened it carefully, finding to his relieve that it wasn't locked. Using the data Sherlock had obtained –God knows where- he logged into the hospitals database and searched for Reginald Musgrave's data. As expected, Marilyn and Samantha Jones where noted as recipients of his donation and had been contacted by Doctor Roylott, regarding the unfortunate disease the donor had suffered from. Their child, a young boy named Samuel, was apparently of the best health. Nothing in the notes suggested any close relationship between the mothers and the biological father of their son. John wrote down the contact information and the most important data and closed the laptop carefully. A dead end.

He moved towards the door as it flew open violently, causing him to jump. Pushing his notes into his pocket, he stood straight, facing the intruder. It was another doctor, a young woman staring at him in shock. "I'm sorry, what are you doing here?" She asked, crossing her arms. John extended his hand, smiling. "My name is Doctor Watson, I was just looking for Doctor Roylott?" The woman ignored his hand and raised her brow. "He isn't here." "So I noticed. I was just leaving a note." "Stay away from my husband!" She hissed through clenched teeth. John stared at her in bewilderment. "I was just- I'll be leaving then…" He carefully pushed through the doorframe, flinching at the poisonous stare, and ran down the corridor as fast as he could.

Sherlock was, once again, covered in tubes and cables, though this time none of them actually pierced his skin. Molly's contacts had made up a good stage for the Detective's brilliant acting as a traumatized patient. It was only when John entered that the lifeless eyes burned with energy once again and the frail body regained it's posture. "What did you find?" He asked eagerly. "Nothing new," John answered. "Same things Molly dug out for us. The Jones' child is a boy named Samuel, 3 years old and completely healthy according to the hospital's data." Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. "What a shame. I had hoped to find him similarly ill, it would have given us a motive. Nothing else?" His partner shook his head. "A scary woman found me in Roylott's office and yelled at me but I hardly think that's related." The detective chuckled. "His wife, was she? He cheats on her with some of the staff here, one of the male nurses smelled very strongly of him and another friendly doctor had a mark made by his wedding ring on her neck. You should probably try to find the doctor and come up with a reasons you've been looking for him before he gets suspicious." John arched his brow but nodded, leaving the room to find the unfaithful doctor, while Sherlock sank back into his performance of pain and misery. Just as he walked down the lonely corridor, a nurse bumped into him and he felt something being pressed into his palm. Before he could recover from the shock, the stranger had disappeared behind a corner. Checking that no one else was watching, he retreated into a storage room. It was a scribbled note on the back of an old receipt. "Found something. Will visit tonight. Make sure we are alone. –M"

Nightmares haunted Mycroft whenever he dared to close his eyes. His whole body ached from lack of movement and the slimy food made him sick. He was almost relieved as the heavy door opened with a loud creaking noise and Sebastian Moran entered, smiling, to take him out of his misery. He wondered who'd take care of his sister when he was dead. Then again, he probably wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her. Mycroft closed his eyes, remembering the last time he faced certain death. He remembered being afraid and sad but determined that it was the right thing. Back then, facing Sherlock's gun, he had had the consolation of dying with pride and honour. Now he was crawling on the dusty floor, dirty and scared and all alone.

"Wakey wakey, Mr. Holmes!" A hand grabbed him by the collar, forcing him to look up. "I'm afraid your brother has given up on you quite quickly so that makes you rather useless to us." Mycroft stared into his captor's face. He felt strangely empty. Struggling to find his mask of courage, he met the other man's gaze. "My brother will not be defeated. You don't stand a chance against him." He wasn't sure he had even convinced himself. But what was the point? Moran was still smiling sweetly. "Oh Mycroft, Mycroft, don't be stupid, it doesn't suit you. He already is defeated. Not even strong enough to beat some cheap thugs I sent for mere entertainment! Oh, he is a broken man already. And so are you, I'm afraid. Love has made you soft." He loosened the shackles and dragged him into a standing position, a revolver aimed at his head. Mycroft gave in to his touch, barely enough energy left to stand on his feet. His eyes lost focus, staring into nothingness. Soon it would all be over. Moran grinned. "This has been fun but playtime's over, I got business to take care of." He laughed. "Don't worry, I'll be gentleman and make it quick. We'll send your body to your parents, I'm sure they'll have a nice little funeral." He started pacing excitedly. "I should get the morgue girl first, though, imagine the chaos, brother dead, friend gone and a funeral to arrange!" A deadly, icy rage set on his face, the empty eyes staring at Mycroft with pure hatred. Moran took out his phone and held the camera up. "Smile." He said coldly.

All of the sudden, the fear was gone. All his anxiety and pain seemed to wash away as Mycroft met Sebastian Moran's deadly gaze. Instead, determination burned through his veins like fire, crawling over his skin, his muscles tensing and eyes sparking. If he was going to die, he's still die with pride. And there was no way this man going to harm his brother any longer. He thought of Sherlock and Greg, even his parents, and his face hardened. For a second, puzzlement flashed across the Colonel's face as he realized the change that had overcome his victim. In a blur of movement, Mycroft threw his arms up and launched himself against Moran with a cry of anger, taking the Colonel by surprise. The gunshot echoed through the cell and Mycroft yelled with pain. With a crash, the men fell against the metal shelves, knocking them to the ground, tools clattering to the hard floor. They struggled, a tangled mass of arms and legs. Mycroft wrapped his arm around the other man's throat, focusing all his strength. A sharp pain went through his body as the other's elbow rammed into his sides. He gasped for breath. Another hit met his bullet wound, causing him to collapse in agony, releasing Moran, who got on his feet quickly, grabbing the gun and firing a second, clumsy shot as he gasped for air. Mycroft screamed in pained, still scrambling through piles of rusty metal. Moran's eyes flashed with victory as he aimed straight at his head. Something flashed through the air and the revolver hit the ground with a loud clang. Both men stared at the entrance door in bewilderment, where Irene Adler stood, hand still raised, staring at Sebastian with glinting eyes, his wrist pouring a stream of scarlet blood down his arm. Instinctively, the man wrapped his free hand around the wound. Mycroft forced himself on his feet, face twisted with rage and pain, and jumped for the weapon. Moran yelled, kicked at his stomach and reached for his gun with the injured arm. A shiny, red high heel came down hard on his hand and another kicked the revolver out of his reach. Irene placed another sharp kick against his head, making him drop, unconscious. She grabbed Mycroft by the arm, dragging him up, pressing the gun into his hand. "Out. Quickly now."

The hospital wing was a lot quieter at night. The staff moved silently, their chatter reduced to a few whispers, as they checked on their patients. John sat next to Sherlock's bed, waiting for their friends, eyeing the door nervously. "D'you realize how many bloody hospitals rooms we've seen over the past few weeks? I feel like it's more than I've seen working as a Doctor." Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "I had also hoped never to see one again after what happened with Culverton Smith. We live a dangerous life, John, that much was always clear. I just never thought it'd be a danger to everyone else, too." He dug his hands into the soft blanket. "We don't even know if he's still alive…" John took his hand, softly. "Mycroft is smart, he'll find a way to stay alive." The door opened with a soft creak. "I won't give up on him." Greg said quietly. He looked very tired, his face was sunk and gray, his eyes rimmed with red. Molly touched his shoulder softly, looking just as exhausted. "We spent all day and night in the archives and we found something that might help you." They gathered around the bed, an old cardboard box placed on the sheets. The Inspector took out a sheet of paper and some pictures. "Old police reports. Turns out Miss Marilyn Jones was accused of drug dealing when she was 14, but they never had enough evidence for an arrest. When she was 16 years old she was arrested for illegal prostitution and four years later she was tangled up in a murder investigation but again, they didn't have enough evidence. And now guess who paid the lawyer for her?" He took out a photograph of a younger and much friendlier looking Sebastian Moran. Sherlock drew his brows together, staring at the picture. "That can hardly be a coincidence then." "I also received a note from one of your men on the streets," Molly added, "and the Jones family hasn't been seen around the neighbourhood for a few weeks. He asked around in the streets and the next-door neighbour said one day they just left. Took a cab and disappeared, the car and dog still at home, curtains open. He took the poor pet in eventually after they had been gone for a couple of days." "And he didn't file a missing person report?" She nodded. "He tried but the police told him they knew about the Jones' whereabouts and there was no reason to worry." Sherlock squinted his eyes in suspicion. "You did, of course check with the Yard on that?" Greg nodded. "Yeah, we tried to check on that and Marilyn Jones' credit card activity was checked on two weeks ago. She is still using it. Can't get any details without a warrant and I didn't want to take any risks."

"Wise choice, we still need to keep low." The Detective said, drumming his fingers on the bedside table, his eyes darting over the laid-out papers, thinking. "There's a couple of things that don't make sense yet. Molly, do we have any details on how the sperm donation was processed? Did the couple choose the donor?" She shrugged. "The usual process, they write down their wishes, get a selection of available donors and choose one." Sherlock shook his head. "Then how did the donor get tangled up in it? It's not very common for the biological father to be in contact with his offspring and the child is hardly old enough to ask for him." He sighed, massaging his temples. "Then there's the question why they left and where they went. I'm afraid we'll have to check their house ourselves. I need to take a look around."

"How is any of this going to help us find Mycroft?" Greg snapped. "Or his body, for all we know." Sherlock looked at his friend with deepest sympathy in his eyes. "It's the best we've got. He could be anywhere and Moran is smart, he would've made sure not to leave any traces, so all we have is the mistakes more ordinary people have made." "You think you're so clever, Sherlock, better than anyone else, but it was you who led us into that hotel, your plan, your fault!" Pain burned in the Inspector's eyes, his voice shaking. Molly reached out to touch his shoulder. "Greg…" She whispered. "He's right." Sherlock said, his voice strained with sadness. "I was foolish to fall for Moran's trick, I lead you into that danger. You have every right to hate me, Greg. But I am scared too. Mycroft is my brother and if he got hurt because of me, I'd never forgive myself for it." John reached out to touch his hand but Sherlock pulled it away, looking down. "We will find him. We have to."

It took a bit of discussing and bribing but the team managed to persuade Doctor Roylott that Sherlock could be taken care of in 221B. A dummy, that Sherlock had used to trick his enemies on multiple cases before, was placed in the flat and Molly's friends made a big scene of taking their patient into the flat. When the diversion had been arranged, they took the bus out of the city's centre, each dressed in one of Sherlock's disguises. Norwood Hill was quiet and empty compared to the raging streets of London and Greg felt awfully vulnerable out on almost the empty streets. The sun had broken through the clouds, illuminating the trees and flowers with golden light. The Inspector rose his head, feeling the warm rays on his skin. What a beautiful day. He dreamed, so often, of a nice picnic in a quiet park, lying on the grass, bathing in the sun, Mycroft beside him. How beautiful his lover would look, all white porcelain in the rich green. The thought was ridiculous and gay but he couldn't help it, he had always been a hopeless romantic. Sharp pain stabbed his chest. It tore him apart, not knowing where his love was, if he was even still alive. Would he know if he wasn't? Would he feel it, the life of the man he loved fading away? Or would the world keep turning, painfully normal, the sun rising and setting as if the wonderful man had never existed? The thought made him sick.

"This is it." Molly said quietly, looking at a red brick house. It looked as normal as any other building in the street. A silver SUV was parked in the front, the curtains were drawn back, revealing a living room and a kitchen. The only thing that suggested the absence of inhabitants was the pile of newspapers and mail overflowing from the letterbox. The group split up, each spreading over the street, trying to blend in with the surroundings, as it would rouse suspicion to have a bunch of strangers investigate a house.

Sherlock approached the house alone and picked up the letters from the floor, shuffling through them. There was a loud yelping and barking and a black dog dashed towards the group, tail wagging in excitement. As it reached the front yard and realized the man was a stranger to him, it dropped in disappointment, whining softly. The Detective sat down next to it, reaching out to pet it's head. "Hello there. You must be the Jones' faithful companion. Now why did they leave you behind?" He stroked the creature's head, watching it carefully. "I'm so sorry, Sir, he just broke through the fence, I really hope he didn't scare you!" A man came after it, leash in hand, face red with embarrassment. He was middle-aged, clean shaven and silver-haired, his face friendly and open. "Not a problem, my friend," Sherlock smiled, "I am quite fond of them. A Staffordshire Terrier, isn't he? Very loyal and reliable breed if they are treated right." The man shrugged. "I wouldn't know, Sir, he isn't mine. Neighbours left poor Coco all to himself, so I took him in. Was hoping they'd come back for him but it's been weeks. Dunno how much longer I can afford to keep him." He sighed. "Anyways, so sorry, where are my manners? Craig Saxon! Are you a friend of theirs?" Sherlock stood up and shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, I'm James Musgrave. I am looking for the Jones, they're friends of mine and I can't find them anywhere." Worry glistened in his eyes as he spoke, but his mind was working coolly, scanning the stranger. "I'm afraid I know nothing about where they went. Police said they're found and fine, but wouldn't tell me where or when they're coming back." He shook his head. "So, Musgrave, eh? Relative of little Sam's father?" Sherlock smiled and nodded. "A distant cousin. You know him then?" Saxon nodded.

"A fine man, he was, the boy adored him and the two girls where very grateful to always have a babysitter at hand when they needed some time for themselves."  
"Ah yes, he was a good guy. How lucky that Marilyn and Samantha found him as donor."  
"Found him? They go way back, don't they? Colleagues and all that. But I suppose it was luck that timing was so right." He shook his head sadly. "It's a shame he had to go so soon. Very sorry for your loss, Mr. Musgrave."  
"Thank you." Sherlock said softly. "If Coco is too much of a burden to you, I can keep him, if you like! I am rather good with dogs and as you see, he knows me well." He glanced at the dog, obediently sitting before him, looking at him expectantly.

"You would do me a great service, Sir! I'm not at my best health and all these walks are very tiring. And the amount of food that creature eats!" He pressed the leash into Sherlock's hands, followed by a small key. "Backdoor key. I suppose you know where his other things are? Oh and here, my number, do call me if you ever need anything and tell me if you find them!" The man hurried of quickly, leaving Sherlock alone with Coco. He eyed the dog suspiciously. Something must be odd about the pet if the faithful neighbour was so desperate to get rid of it. With a quick glance to the shadowy bench on the other side of the street, he signalled the others to follow and made his way into the house through the back door. Yelping happily, Coco burst in, scratching at a small cupboard. Sherlock followed and opened it, finding bags of cheap dog food and a jar of treats.

The others entered, one by one, waiting quietly as the Detective watched the Pitbull, his eyes alert. "Dogs are a reflection of the family they live with." He said, as they were all gathered. "If they are happy, if they are healthy, well trained, well groomed. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat their pets." His eyes followed the creature around the room. "He's awfully obedient and he looks well fed, yet our friend over there was desperate to get rid of him." Molly got to her knees and made a cooing sound. "Come here, Coco, let me have a look at you." The dog looked up from his food, noticing the newcomers for the first time. He winced, his ears flat to his head and his tail between his legs. Whining, the pet lay flat on the ground. Molly backed off in shock, glancing at Sherlock questioningly. The Detective watched the dog, approaching it carefully. "It's alright, old boy, don't worry." Coco crept over the ground, his eyes fixed on the girl, cowering behind him. Sherlock picked up a picture hanging from the wall. "Interesting…"  
"What is it? Did I do something wrong?"  
He handed her the picture, showing a brunette woman with a blonde child in her arms. "I suppose that is Marilyn Jones. She looks a bit like you, from a distance. She wasn't a very kind woman, I would guess. Poor Coco here must've suffered quite the abuse from her hand. If the Saxons have a female family member, which is likely, then they would have to put up with a terrified animal. Maybe he even bit her at some point."  
"Then why does he like you so much?"  
"Reginald Musgrave visited them often, maybe he consoled him, offered refuge from the mishandling." He carefully put the leash back on the whining creature's collar, tying him to the kitchen table. "Let's see if we can find any documents or notes, calendar entries, anything. Split u, see what you can find, stay away from windows and Molly, be careful with the dog, no need to stress him any further."

The air was stale and musky. They stepped over the motionless bodies of Moran's henchmen, knocked out by whatever Irene had mixed in their coffee. Mycroft had realized by now where he was and he wished he had never found out. The woman lead the way, gun ready, heals clicking. He wondered why she had chosen this attire, she might as well shout "traitor" as she walked through the corridors, climbing the stone staircase out of the basement. His wounds were burning, he felt dizzy, everything spinning and shaking, his head heavy. Breathing hard, he followed the sound of his saviour's heals, pulling himself upstairs. The pain was unbearable. White hot agony shot from the holes in his chest and stomach. He could feel the warm blood soak his ragged clothes. The world blurred and the edges of his vision darkened. He felt a welcoming black nothing approach. A cold hand grasped his arm, pulling him up. "Pull yourself together or I'll leave you to die." Irene hissed. Mycroft looked up, trying to focus his tired eyes on the pretty face. Maybe he wanted to die. Anything to make it stop, the pain and fear and exhaustion. He closed his eyes.

Warm, brown eyes and a charming smile burned in his memory. His chest ached, a pain stronger than any bullet could cause. Hopeless longing. Would he not do anything to be back in his lover's arms? Had he not spent years in cold loneliness and only a few weeks in the warmth of his love? The hand grasping him loosened and he dropped to the cold floor, feeling his head rest on the rough step. Fighting through the torturous agony, Mycroft pulled himself to his feet, forcing his heavy eyelids open. Irene was staring down at him, impatiently. She took his hand again and dragged him after her, ascending from the cold, musky basement to a warm, almost welcoming cottage. The sunlight pouring through the windows was bright and stung his eyes, yet he welcomed the warmth on his skin.

"Alright boys!" Irene announced loudly, her voice sweet and cold. "You know the game, off you go!" She was aiming her gun at another pair of henchmen, her silhouette elegant and confident against the blinding light, the bulky, dangerous-looking men glanced at the armed woman in fear and scuttled out the door in terror. She grinned.  
Mycroft barely had time to adjust to the new brightness of his surroundings, as he was dragged down the hallway, through a kitchen, where a shy servant girl cowered at the sight of them and let them through without a word. The pain spread further through his body, his limbs went numb and the sounds around him were muffled. Everything was happening too fast for him to comprehend. He knew he only had a few more minutes of consciousness before pain and blood loss would overwhelm him. "Why…?" He gasped, staggering. Irene pulled his arm viciously. "Don't ask questions, just go!" Her voice was full of authority. There was a time where Mycroft would have despised to be rescued, especially by criminal in heels and lingerie, but he swallowed his pride, relieved ad grateful. "Tha-" The woman whipped around. "I said shut up!" She hissed. He shrank back.

Vaguely aware of being pushed through a small door, he stumbled outside, sunshine on his dry, sore skin, warm and comforting, wind softly caressing his cheeks and the smell of trees and grass. He took a few steps forward, eyes closed against the golden sunlight. Someone was shouting. Or singing? Mumbling? The pain ebbed away, the light against his eyes died away. The last thing Mycroft felt was soft grass on his face as he tumbled forward.


	24. Chapter 24

_*trigger warning* includes the mention of domestic abuse and suicide_

"Cardiff?" Greg asked, raising his eyebrows. Molly shot him an angry glance. "I can read, you know?" She tossed him a folder of aged, partly torn papers. "Marilyn Jones bought a warehouse on an island next to Cardiff 6 years ago and asked for permission to build a small house next to it. She kept the papers hidden behind the picture frame, I found it when I took out the photograph to ask around if anyone had seen her." John moved to take a look. "I assume she didn't need the place for a season pass to the Doctor Who Experience?" She shook her head. "I checked with the records and the Police kept an eye on it, given her history, even managed to get a warrant for a search a few years ago but they could never find anything suspicious." "If she was working with Moriarty he'd be able to find out about the warrant and tip them off." Sherlock brought in. He was pacing up and down like a tiger in a cage. "Question is what did they need the place for? Drugs, prostitution, murder? What was the case she got caught up in again?" Molly's eyes darkened. "An entire family went missing on their trip. Relative filed missing person report, police investigated for weeks and finally pulled the parents' bodies out of the water at the docks." "Given Jones' criminal history that might've been the cause for a search warrant." Greg brought in, his voice flat and distant. "They never solved the murder?" Molly searched her bag and got out the files. "Traces of torture, shot in the head, friction burns from ropes, possibly post-mortem, had been in the water for about 24 hours." He read out loud, "They had been scrubbed with chemicals, their fingers burned, also post-mortem, and therefore they couldn't find any evidence. Never found the children either. Wonder what was special about them they'd go through such trouble? Was it Moriarty's orders?"

Sherlock grabbed the papers impatiently, waving them in the air. "That's not our investigation. Marilyn Jones is somehow connected to Musgrave and Moran, she owns a seclude place that was once part of an investigation and," He dropped a hollowed book on the kitchen table, "she has a ton of information on him, bank accounts, places he owns, contacts, even records of murders and blackmails." "Insurance?" John asked. "For blackmailing?" He shook his head. "Unlikely. Moran has nothing to lose, he would just shoot her on the spot. Which means…"

Suddenly, his eyes lit with mad desperation, the spark of hope had broken through his calm façade, letting his emotions spill out. "Of course, yes, it's got to be- We need to go!" John grabbed his arm, trying to calm in. "Go where?" "Cardiff! The warehouse!" "What if it's a trap again? It's too easy, too obvious, Sherlock, you'll get hurt!" Pain flashed over the Detective's face. "I already am." He roared. "This is the best we got, our only chance of coming close to finding him and we are running out of time! They think I am too injured to move on with the investigation, which means keeping my brother alive to torture me is a waste of time, they don't need him anymore! I can't afford to play it safe anymore, John, I can't afford to be too late!" Tears glistened in his eyes, as he tore the folders from Molly's hands, approaching the door with a quick, determined step. "Get the dog to one of my agents, organize a car, I'll plan the rest. We're going to Cardiff." His words were final. He left, coat flying, burst out the back door and disappeared into the safe shadows of the trees. Coco yelped in the attempt to follow.

Half an hour later, the group sat quietly in the dark blue minivan Molly had organized for them. After a lot of debating, she had finally convinced the men that she was the safest person to drive and had banned the rest of them to sit in the backseats –it was a big 7-seat family van with darkened windows in the back- arguing that she that she had never had much contact with Mycroft and would therefore attract the least amount of attention. John was holding Sherlock, whose face was shadowed with worry.

Greg's eyes stared blankly out the window, watching the wide open fields pass by, trees and grass blurring as the minivan flew by, crossing every speed limit. He felt empty and defeated. Sherlock had said Moran had no reason to keep Mycroft alive any longer. And he was right. It all felt so pointless now, chasing after some woman and her cliché warehouse on a lonely island. Almost comical. With Mycroft gone, it seemed like the colour had been drained from his world, leaving everything gray and cracked. He did his best to hide it, to stay strong and positive, to bottle up his emotions and pretend it was just another case. But Sherlock breaking down like that had weakened his walls, cracks spreading through his world, threatening to shatter everything around him. He felt so lost and so alone. Greg closed his eyes, resting his head against the cold window, feeling the vibration of the car spread through his body.

The sound of waves splashing against a surface and the low rumbling of an engine dragged Mycroft backed into consciousness. Slowly, he became aware of the stabbing pain in his stomach and chest, remembering how the bullet had torn through his skin. Blinking against blinding light, he looked around. Someone had bandaged his wounds very roughly, dark blood soaking through the cotton already. He was on a small motor boat, lying on a white leather bench, the dark grey water splashing around him. Streaks of orange and red were blazing at the horizon as the sun set. He must have been knocked out for a while.

"Sleeping beauty is awake as last." A gleeful female voice said. Myroft turned around to find Irene Adler and another slim, gorgeous woman, her short bleached-blonde hair shimmering almost gold in the dim light, looking at him. She approached Mycroft with a look of almost childish curiosity. "He doesn't look very posh." She said, kneeling down before him, staring at his bruised, dirty face. Irene chuckled. "Well, what did you expect, he was kept in a basement for days." The stranger shrugged. "Well, guess he'll still be worth some money, won't you, pretty boy?" She tugged at the shredded remains of the expensive suit.

Mycroft stared back at her with confusion for a moment, then it dawned on him. "I see." He said, as he regained enough strength to bring back some integrity to his voice. "You are going to bargain." The blonde grinned. "Clever boy!" She held out his hand with a pitying glance, as if introducing herself to a frightened child. "I'm Lynn. I'll be your new abductor." "Is it money you need? I can give you money." Lynn frowned theatrically. "Oh puh-lease if it was only money I needed I would have let Moran kill you ages ago." She dropped on the floor, pulling her legs up, looking like a teenager on a pyjama party. Despite her cheerful, childish attitude and playful smile, her eyes were cold and cruel, sending shivers down his spine. "Irene and I are gonna need protection. See, I was thinking maybe a nice place in California and a little tweaking in my records and I swear you will never see us again." Mycroft asked his brow and looked over to the other woman. "You had your chance ages ago, why not stay dead?" "I owed your brother a favour." She answered. "I knew Moran was going to take over eventually and that Sherlock would be his number one target. But now I've done my part, we'll shake of Moran's men, contact your employers and trade you for our safety." "Moran isn't dead." "No, killing him would only send the next random criminal in the food chain after you and your brother. You need Moran alive and –" Gunshots echoed over the sea and the silhouette of a much larger boat peeled through the mist in the distance. Irene smiled, her eyes sparking in excitement.

Suddenly, the air was on fire. Lynn was screaming like a maniac, her face alive with joy, as she fired her guns at the approaching small yacht. Irene had pulled a small chest from under the leather bench and supplied them with weapons. Mycroft's head spun, noise and movement and fear too overwhelming for his weakened body. He gripped the revolver she had handed him tightly, willing his mind to stay awake. Moran's henchmen were shouting madly, bullets soared through the air and sent splinters of wood and plastic flying. Someone had manages to set their own small boat on fire, flames cackling merrily, making the air too hot to breathe. His vision blurred, the world started spinning and slowly, the noise faded away.

"Did you hear that?" Greg jerked awake in shock, his heart pounding. The sound of guns and explosion in the distance made his skin crawl with fear. The rest of the group nodded, the air growing tense. Molly ignored the traffic lights, the shrieking of brakes momentarily covering the sound of fighting. They had reached the harbour in record time, which also ensured that the local police was on their way. Leaving the car on the side of the street, the team dashed towards the water, guns ready. Far out on the water, flames glowing above the outline of a boat against the darkening sky. Mist obscured the view and it was too far out to reach in time.

"Do you think it's got something to with them?" Greg asked anxiously. Sherlock didn't answer. He signalled the others to stay back, walking along the harbour towards the water. Climbing from one of the boats, Sebastian Moran entered the scene. His head was bandaged and he looked ragged. He looked genuinely surprised to find them here. Sherlock smiled coldly as he watched the criminal cock his head in confusion. "This is not how the game works, Sherlock. You're supposed to be in a hospital. Really, you are no fun at all." The Detective stared at him, his face cold and hard. "The game is over Moran. We found Marilyn Jones. You should really consider getting a new secretary. The girl double-crossed you, she was more than ready to trade you for her own safety. Now, I am sure it's just a fragment of the allies and refuges you have across the country but it will be enough to weaken you and definitely enough to frighten anyone away from you." Moran's eyes widened in shock. "She wouldn't dare!" He roared. "I have her family! She knows I will kill them!"

"Oh yes, I think she is very aware of that." Sherlock said calmly. The sound of guns still roared in the distance, accompanied by muffled screaming. "You see, it first occurred to me when their dog showed clear signs of pure panic as Molly approached him. He had obviously experienced abuse from a female many times before, enough to traumatize the poor creature for life. Then, I took a look at the family photographs and noticed another thing, her partner Samantha was wearing long sleeves and turtle necks, even on the warmest of summer days. That alone is very suggestive. I would also have expected photos or letters or any other sign of social contacts but there were none. Musgrave payed them regular visits and gave them financial support, at first we thought he was just making sure his son lived a healthy life but then we found out you were paying Marilyn Jones quite enough money to sustain a decent lifestyle." Moran arched his brow in confusion. "I really don't see why this matters!" Sherlock shrugged airily. "Oh well, it's just that you assumed, grieving the loss of your boyfriend, that the best way to get to a person is by taking away their loved ones. You took Samantha Jones and her son to blackmail Musgrave back into submission after his medical condition had given him a conscious, hoping to force Marilyn Jones' loyalty as well. Two birds with one stone. Yet you overlooked the obvious. Marilyn did not care much about her family, she was abusive towards them. My best guess is she simply needed an alibi, with the police constantly checking on her, and marriage with child is the best way to look as innocent and normal as possible."

Horror spread on Moran's face. He looked over to the water, where the noise had died down and mist had swallowed the scene. He growled furiously. "Then my revenge is all I have!"  
"You can still kill me." Sherlock answered coldly. "But the game is over. All the information Marilyn Jones had on you has been handed over to the authorities. You have abducted a man from the very heart of the British Government, there is no way you can escape this anymore. A bargain is your only chance."

Moran shook his head. "I have nothing left to lose. Jim is gone. He was my world and you killed him. The least I can do is avenge his death and kill you too."  
"You are a failure, Sebastian!" Sherlock said harshly. "You thought you could take over from Moriarty, be the next Napoleon of Crime. And he made it so easy for you. Yet somehow, you managed to fail." "No!" Moran screamed, his face red with fury. "Shut up!" "You don't blame me for Jim Moriarty's suicide. You blame yourself. You wonder if there is something you could have done." Sherlock's face grew cold and cruel. "Most of all, I think you realize you meant nothing to him. That he chose death rather than be with you." Raw pain twisted Sebastian Moran's face, tears streaming down his face, as he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the ground, smashing the pavement, sending debris flying, as John tore him down, knocking the gun out of his hand, firmly gripping the criminal's wrists.

A small yacht slowly tore from out of the mist. It was scorched and cracked, some parts still smoking faintly. The silence out on the water was deafening. Nothing but the soft rushing of waves and the low hum of the engine. Sebastian Moran lay cuffed and gagged on the floor of the small fishing boat Sherlock had 'borrowed' from the harbour. Molly and Greg watched him carefully while the Detective steered them towards the chaos out on the water. As they came closer to the scene, Sherlock drew a sharp breath. Blood stained the once smooth white surface of the classy boat, fragments of a second one floated through the soft waves and bodies were scattered across the scene, most of them face-down in the water.

Irene Adler looked at them, calmly, seated elegantly on the wreck of the railing. Surprise showed on her face when she recognized the face of her rescuers. "I must confess, I underestimated you." She said. A second head bobbed up behind her, a young woman with short hair and a handsome face. She frowned. "This is not what we had planned. Where are the agents? You promised! What is going on?" A hint of panic rose in her voice. Irene cast her a nervous glance, shifting uncomfortably. "Calm down, sweetheart, it's not over yet." Her voice was a soothing, soft purr. Sherlock scanned the stranger, his guts twisting as he realized why the otherwise so dominant woman got nervous. Marilyn Jones – her hair shorter and bleached, her skin a bit more gray than in the pictures – was occupying herself by stabbing a sharp metal shard into a dead body at her feet. Her cruel eyes were restless, staring at the approaching boat. The girl jumped to her feet, shard still in hand, pouting. "Let's kill them and steal the boat." She screeched. "And then what? How do you want to negotiate your freedom standing on a pile of corpses?" Her voice was quivering slightly. "Calm down, love, please, just bring our little package and we'll fine, I promise."

Sherlock's eyes sparked. "Marilyn, I will do whatever you ask me to. Just give me my brother." She flashed a grin at him. "Okey-dokey!" Her glowing blond head disappeared again and Irene turned around, flashing Sherlock a confused glance. "Do you realize what you have done?" She hissed through gritted teeth. Lynn reappeared, dragging a half-unconscious Mycroft with her, the blade pressed to his throat. Sherlock tensed.

Behind him, Greg gasped, jumping to his feet, tears glistening in his eyes. Shaking with emotion, he stared at his lover. The joy and relief of finding him was tainted by the pain of seeing him in such a state. His elegant suit was torn and dirty, spotted with dried blood, soaked bandages covered him, his face was sunken and gray. The once so elegant and proud Mycroft Holmes was no more than a walking corpse.

"Just… come over… we'll take you back with us." Sherlock said quietly, his eyes alert. Irene swung her leg over the railing and dropped on the fishing boat. She was looking at the floor with an air of shame and regret. Carelessly, Lynn pushed Mycroft's body over, following closely, her weapon dangerously close to her captive's throat. She landed on the boat, one hand gripping the blade, the other keeping his head back, throat exposed. An unbearable tension stood between them. Sheer panic blazed in Sherlock's eyes. "Give him to me, please." He said quietly. "There is no need for this." A muffled cackle sounded from behind him and his stomach lurched. He had forgotten about Moran. The man was chuckling, watching the scene in amusement. Molly jumped forward, trying to silence him. Lynn's eyes lit up with madness. "Here we are at last!" She screeched happily. "You took away my toy, I took away yours. You broke mine, maybe…" She poked the tip of the metal shard at the exposed skin, making a thin thread of blood run down the throat. Moran continued to struggle against Molly's grip, laughing hysterically. "Think it's funny, do you? You just had to cross the line. You just had to!" She was screaming, waving her hands around. "The girl I didn't care about, I could've found another toy but you took my son! My own flesh and blood, my only kin! I trusted you, I was loyal, I killed and lied and Oh it was fun! There was no need for-" She stopped, eyes wide open. "Maybe I should thank you… You made me see, made me realize… All I really need is myself. Trust no one." Marilyn laughed, a childish giggle and Irene's face darted towards her in fear. Then, everything happened in a blur. Both she and Sherlock realized, both darted forward. Irene stood closer. She grabbed the girl's arm, dragging her down, both of them collapsing in a wild tangle of arms. Sherlock caught Mycroft. A scream of agony and rage split the air. He looked up, meeting the madwoman's eyes, pure insanity glowing in her face. A gunshot sounded and Marilyn Jones dropped dead. Irene Adler dropped the gun, gasping, her hands clutching the large metal shard that was now stuck in her stomach. Her eyes met Sherlock's, a smile quivered on her lips, then her head dropped on her chest.

The Woman was dead.


End file.
